


Whatever the fates decide.

by Humanity_Sucks2002



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Dark Magic, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Imprisonment, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Romance, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Unplanned Pregnancy, a lot of travelling, i don't know how to tag, if they survived au, they're bad people lol, this is my second ever fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 45
Words: 89,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25999081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanity_Sucks2002/pseuds/Humanity_Sucks2002
Summary: The battle of Hogwarts is lost, and Voldemort is forced to reatreat. With the majority of his forces either dead or imprisoned, he is left only with Bellatrix Le-Strange and Antonin Dolohov. How can they rebuild themselves from this? Can I figure out how to write an interesting summary? Who knows?
Relationships: Antonin Dolohov & Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov & Voldemort, Bellatrix Black Lestrange & Voldemort, Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Voldemort
Comments: 259
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> (This is inspired partly by a fanfiction I read on FF.net ‘Tie My Rope’  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5835865/1/Tie-My-Rope (if you want to read it)  
> (I really enjoyed this – it’s pretty old now but I recommend. It is incomplete unfortunately) and by the ‘Italian Job’. Hope you like it.  
> This might suck ngl but i've spent 6 months in isolation now and i'm going insane!

Harry Potter was not dead and nothing was going according to plan. Complete chaos erupted as the everyone, on all sides, tried to process what the hell just happened. Bellatrix Lestrange was one of the first to jump back into action. She screamed orders to the flocks of confused death eaters to get back into the fight, firing curses at a few of them who looked as if they wanted to run. Successful in her rallying of the troops, both sides armed themselves once more and flew into furious battle.

Everything was a blur. Spells flew in a kaleidoscopic rainbow of death and destruction around the courtyard, knocking people down to the cobbles and causing explosions so powerful they would shake your bones. Blood collected between the stones in scarlet pools. Bellatrix happened to spot her husband, Rodolphus, across the battlefield. He was duelling two incompetent Hufflepuff students – both of them probably about sixteen - and had just finished both of them off with an evil flourish, when an explosion ripped through the wall behind him. The side of his head splintered, with what looked like brain matter splattering everywhere. His body fell, bloody, limp, lifeless, and landed between the corpses of his last victims. Bellatrix reeled backwards, but could not stop now. There was no time to think about the sight at the moment – she would process, and mourn him later. Three children were trying to draw her into a duel, and Bellatrix was not the kind of woman to leave a child without attention.

Her comrades at arms falling around her, Bellatrix easily fought off the children. She recognised them – they were friends of the Potter boy – but names mostly escaped her. It didn’t really matter; even together they did not outclass her. The bushy haired one, the Mudblood, was jerky in her duelling. Clearly, she knew a wide verity of spells, but she was unrefined in her technique. The Lovegood girl surprised Bellatrix; she was far more vicious in battle than she would have thought. It was unfortunate that she was a blood traitor, and therefore had to die. Lovegood would have made an excellent duellist. The Weasley brat (it seemed like there were more Weasleys every time Bellatrix saw them) was the weak link in the trio. She was violent, far more than Lovegood, but she was less elegant than the blonde, and much less knowledgeable than the Mudblood. Her movements were erratic, and she stuck to the same three spells over and over. Predictable.

Hissing gleefully, Bellatrix cast the killing curse, just missing the Weasley girl. There was a hair in it – she had just been swift enough to dodge it. The spell shot over the girl’s shoulder and hit another person in the back, causing them to fall down dead. ‘Oh well, still a win.’ Bellatrix thought. It was a surprise to Bellatrix when a desperate shout reached her ears.

“Not my daughter, you BITCH!” The Weasley mother sprang from the crowd, throwing off her cloak. It would have been intimidating, had the person initiating the battle been anyone other than a dumpy, middle aged woman. No – it was funny to Bellatrix, like she was trying to pretend to be an action hero from one of the comics they printed in the Daily Prophet. The comics were drivel, and so was this display. Bellatrix laughed arrogantly and recklessly, allowing the woman to shoo the girls aside. She would deal with them later.  
The attack was fiercer than Bellatrix had expected. Mentally, she chided herself. Molly Weasley was a Prewett by birth after all. Gideon and Fabian Prewett had been real opponents, back in the day, their sister shouldn’t be any different. Still, what had she done since her own Hogwarts’ experience? Been a housewife. Why would she have been practising her duelling? How crazy were her children if these were the skills she needed to wrangle them?

Truly, the duel would be legendary. The power of the magic they used crackled intensely in the air around them. It was hot, electric to the touch, bubbling with the hatred each woman had for each other. Bellatrix had her full concentration into the fight – if not, she would have noticed that she was the only Death Eater still fighting, the only other person on their side still kicking being the Dark Lord himself. Everyone else – devoid of things to do apparently – had just gathered around watching the two battles going on before them.

She taunted the Weasley matriarch as the fought – partly to try to throw her off her game, but also because she had just thought of some great insults. They enraged Mrs Weasley but, over her shoulder Bellatrix saw the Dark Lord. Even in the middle of his duel he looked calm, as if the desperate attempts by Order members to take him down was of little interest to him. He shot her a look across the room. The message was clear = ‘stop playing with her, just do it. Make it good.’ A wicked grin on her face, Bellatrix did as she was told. In one swift motion, Bellatrix had kicked Molly Weasley in the knees, breaking her concentration and knocking her off her balance. She put out her hands to break her fall but it was too late. Bellatrix screamed the killing curse with all the vitriol she’d worked up in the duel, evil glee coating her features like wax. Molly Weasley was dead before she hit the ground.

Silence. the hall was filled with an all-consuming silence for a second as everyone stared between the fallen mother and her killer. Nobody could believe what just happened. The moment was shattered by Bellatrix’s own mocking laughter. She danced excitedly around the corpse, seizing Molly’s wand and waving it triumphantly in the faces of her family.  
“Who’s next?” Bellatrix challenged, “I can keep going all day long! Who’s going to try and get her wand back? Or are you all too scared?”

“Expelliarmus!” An enraged voice echoed out from nowhere and Molly’s wand was ripped from Bellatrix’s hand into a portion of empty space at the back of the hall. A snarl rose in her through when that empty space suddenly wasn’t quite so empty at all. Harry Potter shucked off his invisibility cloak just in time to catch the wand.

In her time, Bellatrix Lestrange had seen a fair bit of hatred, both directed at her and not. But the look on his face as he drew his own wand was truly the most hateful expression Bellatrix had ever seen. It was the culmination of everything she’d ever done to him in one look. It made her pause, cautious to see what he was about to do. Her hand enclosed around her wand (not actually her wand, of course, because the little shit had stolen hers) tightly. She did not know what he would resort to.

Everything happened so quickly. Bellatrix had been so focused on Harry that she had neglected to keep an eye on the rest of the room. The crowd was uneasy. People clearly wanted to help Harry but did not know what to do, or whether it would be best to leave him to it. There was, of course, only two of them left fighting now. The chosen one could handle that, right? For behind her, the Weasley girl she’d fought before fired a curse at her.

“Diffindo!!” Ginny screamed, tears pouring from her eyes, and a shot of electric blue light shot from the end of the wand. Cursing herself for not paying attention, Bellatrix braced herself for the impact of the curse. She could handle it – had done before. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the impact never came.

Shrieks of confusion and outrage echoed around the hall. In the middle of his duel, between bludgeoning Minerva McGonagall and sending Kingsley Shacklebolt flying, the Dark Lord had sent a protective charm her way. It blocked the curse, and sent it ricocheting around the hall, straight into Neville Longbottom. He screamed and his body did an impressive flip, ending with him landing on his back on the hard, stone floor. Medics rushed to help him.

Snapping her eyes open, Bellatrix laughed maniacally at Longbottom’s pain and flexed her shoulders. She then strained to look over the shoulder of McGonagall, who was still on her feet but was bleeding profusely from her nose, and caught the Dark Lord’s eye. She nodded in thanks and Voldemort accepted it. That was it. It was not a momentous act, as far as either Bellatrix or Voldemort was concerned. In the past they had both saved each other in battle. Bellatrix remembered a particular occasion where she had stopped a killing curse from striking him from behind, when he’d been engaged in a duel with one of the Prewett brothers.

It was at this moment that Potter decided to spring into the action properly. He dived into the fight, shooing away the trio that was currently duelling so that he could face Voldemort himself. Bellatrix had to laugh – Potter had only escaped in the past due to loopholes and circumstance. In a straight fight, he was doomed. She did not get to finish her laugh properly however, as McGonagall decided that she would go from master to servant and began firing curses at her. It was a shame really. McGonagall had been one of Bellatrix’s favourite teachers back in the day – despite her connection to Dumbledore. She’d liked her no-nonsense attitude; so much better than bloody Slughorn! She would have made a formidable Deatheater. 

Potter soliloquized about love conquering all, or something else equally as vapid and contrived (Bellatrix was concentrating more on trying make McGonagall’s kneecaps explode). It does not matter how much you love someone, that feeling won’t change anything. It won’t keep people alive. It won’t bring them back when they’re gone. It won’t keep them near you, if you are so unlucky as to lose them. Of these things, Bellatrix was well aware. The Dark Lord retorted (and something about Snape was mentioned) but Bellatrix’s attention was caught by someone moving behind him.

Red hair – probably a Weasley – was slowly moving up behind him. While she could not see which Weasley it was – even the girl had her hair up in a low ponytail making it look short at a glance – they definitely moved deliberately towards the Dark Lord. The wand movements, the snarl of the words on their tongue, the green light beginning the tell-tale glow around the end of the war; Bellatrix’s heart dropped. Oh no they didn’t, little blood-traitor bastard!

Everything moved in slow motion. Bellatrix threw a powerful cruitatus curse in McGonagall’s direction – hitting her square in the chest and throwing her tens of feet across the stone hall – and dived herself in the opposite direction. It was maybe thirty feet, and she covered it in about three seconds, between herself and the Dark Lord. The words she’d screamed so many times were spat into the air, just as she reached him. Digging her fingers hard into the back of his hand, to make sure he wouldn’t shake her off, Bellatrix grabbed his hand and bolted. The magic surged through her body, pulling the two of them away in the blink of an eye.

The killing curse hit the wall just behind where the Dark Lord had been stood, and the stone exploded. The ancient rock ricocheted around the room dangerously, and all the people within had to duck or cover themselves to avoid any more injuries. Shrieks of pain echoed out, coming from those unfortunate enough to get in the way. Dust settling around them like volcanic ash, people opened their eyes to find -nothing. Lord Voldemort was gone. Bellatrix Le-Strange was gone. There was nothing in their place but falling dust and mortar.

“Is he dead?” A little voice in the crowd asked. Turning around, Harry spotted the speaker. It was Cho, her face bloody and bruised. Harry stumbled amongst the rubble for a couple of seconds, desperately trying to see whether or not he was there, buried among the rubble.

“If there is no body, assume he’s still alive.” Harry said, dejectedly, shaking his head. Ginny, her wand still in her hand stepped out of the crowd, her hands on her hips, as if already planning their next move. Harry assured everyone that they would finish the job soon, that they would find him, but now was not the time. Everyone must be given the time to grieve. He was angry with Ginny for interrupting the fight – he would have had him if she’d waited just a couple more seconds – but he decided to let it go. They would find him; he was alone now – only Bellatrix with him – and they were far more. It would be over soon.


	2. Chapter Two

Lord Voldemort awoke to the sound of birds. No screaming, no spells, no cackling laughter – only quiet, natural noises. It was cold – the wind was blowing fiercely – and he was laying on his back against some gravel. He groaned; his whole body was sore. Upon hearing the noise, a flustered sounding Bellatrix rushed over to him. There was a crunch, as she came to a halt in the gravel next to him.

“My lord, my lord? Are you alright?” Bellatrix said softly, but her tone was full of urgency. She pressed one of her hands to his cheek and the other one found its way to the jugular vein.

“Yes.” He mumbled, “Yes, I am fine. Unhand me woman.” Voldemort said stronger, opening his eyes and sitting up onto his elbows. He would have liked to have remained a little more dignified, but it seemed that the only person around was Bellatrix, and she’d seen him far worse.

“Charming.” Bellatrix laughed, and sat back up onto her knees. She was apparently pleased to see that he was fine enough to be a rude bastard. Voldemort rolled his eyes and waved his hand, as if he was waving away her criticism.

“What happened?” He grumbled and rubbed the side of his head that was the sorest.

“Poor sportsmanship, that’s what!” Bellatrix sounded more angered by that than she did any other actions in the battle. “Bloody Weasley decided it would be a good idea to hit you in the back with a killing curse. I appreated us out of there before it hit.” She shrugged and sighed.

“Well, that’s good. Quick thinking there, well done Bella.” He had to admit it when it was true. Voldemort blinked a couple times and, getting to his feet, looked around at where she had brought them.

Cumbria – that was certain – the rugged hills, lake and valleys around them could be nowhere else. Grey, swirling clouds hung low over them, threatening to become mist. The angry sky was reflected back up in the lake surface, despite the light choppiness of the water. Voldemort could taste the rain in the air. They were in the courtyard of a large, desolate house, that was high up on the hill. There was a road winding up the steep terrain to the house – a muggle car would struggle to get up there. The once great house was now a mess. A Georgian building, with all the typical architecture of the period (even down to the bricked-up windows), that had fallen into ruin beyond repair. There were holes in the roof, the glass was all gone from the windows, the door was hanging on one hinge. The chimney looked terribly dodgy, like a single, powerful gust of wind would knock it down. Voldemort recognised it immediately – he’d been here countless times before. This was LeStrange House.

“What happened here?” Voldemort asked, stunned at the deterioration of the place. Bellatrix looked up at the corpse of a building and smiled sadly.

“The ministry tore the place apart after the boys and I were sent to Azkaban. Then the elements got to her. Nobody was allowed to buy the place back from them, because it was a ‘crime scene’ and they did nothing with it, so she just rotted.”

“How wasteful.” Voldemort shook his head. It had been such an exquisite building; everything inside had been beautifully simple. Without the pomp and circumstance (gaudiness) of Malfoy Manor but sill top quality, elegant and dignified. It had been the exact style that Voldemort had liked, which had made the thousands of hours he’d spent in the house even more pleasant. Bellatrix nodded in agreement, but said nothing. Instead she dragged her left foot backwards and forwards in the gravel, drawing circles with her foot. “You’ll get a new home, when we win.” He said, awkwardly, in a tone as close as he would ever get to comforting.

“I’d better,” Bellatrix laughed, “I’m not living with Lucius for the rest of my life. I don’t know how Cissa copes!” He had to laugh a little too; Lucius was just too easy of a punching bag not to laugh at these days. How the mighty had fallen!

“Right, enough chit-chat. Let’s summon the others, see who’s still alive.” Voldemort said bitterly. He could not believe how badly it had gone. He was stunned. It hadn’t properly sunk in just how terrible it was. He’d won! Potter was dead, they had marched in victory back to the castle – how the fuck had it gone so downhill so quickly?! Bellatrix extended her arm, branded with the dark-mark, for him to summon them with. At least he still had the elder wand, he thought, as he pressed it to her cold skin. “Morsmodre” He hissed, and waited for the Deatheater’s arrival.

Dolohov was the first and only Deatheater to arrive. After a few seconds of nothing but birdsong, he apparated in with a loud crack – unusual for him – and stumbled weakly towards Bellatrix and Voldemort. His hands were pressed to his neck, but their presence did little to stop the blood from pouring between his fingers. Enough strength lingered in him to bow, then he collapsed to his knees as his legs gave out. Other, minor, wounds littered him but the gaping neck wound was by far the worst. Blood was matted into his beard and hair; whether it was his own or others Voldemort was unsure.

“Help him Bella.” Voldemort ordered, and Bellatrix sprang towards him at once. Many years ago, Bellatrix had considered becoming a mediwitch. She’d been about fourteen at the time, and the flash of inspiration had been short-lived, but during the five weeks span it was her ‘lifelong dream’ Bellatrix had managed to absorb all the medical textbooks she’d been able to get her hands on. This had been partially fuelled by Professor Slughorn saying something about how the books were too complicated for some adults, and that he wouldn’t expect her to comprehend them fully. She’d shown him. Umbridge had managed to give herself third degree burns in one potions lesson – Merlin knows how – and Bellatrix had simply healed them, as the professor had been flapping around uselessly.

Mumbling falsely that he was crying over nothing, Bellatrix got to work. Had such a wound been on his limbs, Bellatrix would have put a tourniquet around it, but she couldn’t very well put one on his neck. It made the healing process messier, as his blood soaked into all her clothes, but still manageable.

Voldemort watched as she closed the wound. Slowly, starting at the opposite sides and working its way to the middle, skin stitched itself back together. Congealed, cold, clotted blood that was sitting in the mouth was forced out of the wound and poured down his chest and onto Bellatrix’s hands. It was her hands that caught Voldemort’s eyes. Practically short nails (she’d cut them before the battle lest her long ones got in the way) and slim, delicate hands. They did not look like a killer’s hands, more like a fine lady. Never judge a book, he supposed. The blood congealed around the wedding ring on her left hand. Funny that she would choose to wear it today of all days. Already being in a foul mood after the battle, the sight of the ring annoyed Voldemort even more. Gritting his teeth, he motioned for Bellatrix to stop, now that the wound was closed.

“My lord,” she began to argue, “He’s lost a lot of blood-”

“Quiet Bellatrix. He’s alive enough to answer a few questions. Are you the only one loyal Dolohov, or are you the only one left alive?”

“Somewhere in between my lord.” Dolohov croaked, feeling with one hand when the wound had been along his neck. He was very pale and woozy looking, his eyes not quite focusing, but he soldiered through. “Many are dead. I saw Fenrir stabbed through the chest and impaled on a tree; and Travers…”

“Rodolphus is dead too.” Bellatrix added, only just remembering the sight of his brain matter on the cobbles. “Got it in the head by shrapnel.”

Well, that was interesting news – thought Voldemort. Bellatrix didn’t look all that affected by his death, her face was completely neutral. He nodded curtly and motioned for Dolohov to continue.

“I did see a large number of our side taken prisoner. If you were too badly injured to move, on come the shackles. I definitely saw the Carrows and Rookwood but I’m not sure about the rest.”

“And defectors?”

“I can’t be sure about that my lord. But I saw Narcissa Malfoy leading Draco and Lucius away…”

“NO!” Bellatrix was outraged at the idea. “The Malfoys are loyal – Cissa would never!” Lucius she could accept – Bellatrix had never liked him much anyway – but Narcissa a traitor? If she’d had any traitorous leanings, why had she not done it when Andromeda had? She knew as well as Bellatrix what would happen to traitors. Cissa would not risk Draco like that. No. No there had to be another explanation.

“Thank you for the input Bella. I will look into the Malfoy’s later. As Dolohov says, he saw them leaving. That doesn’t necessarily mean their traitors.” Voldemort’s tone was dry, and mildly sarcastic, but he knew him just saying that would calm her nerves a lot. She had done fantastically today; he would not ruin it by telling her that they were probably going to have to kill her sister. “Good work Dolohov,” Voldemort continued, “We’ll get you inside, and you can rest up and recover. You’ve earned it.”

They got Dolohov into the entrance hall before he had to stop. He wanted to walk on his own, but his legs kept giving under him. Dumping him on a rickety stool, pockmarked with woodworm, they stopped with a sigh. There were cobwebs everywhere, covering every surface.

“I had a radio in here once.” Bellatrix ruminated, looking around. “I bet they’re announcing stuff to the nation.” Before either Dolohov or Voldemort could say anything, she dived into a small wooden chest under a shattered window. The rain had got to it, and the top of the box was very mouldy.

“Probably, but if it was in there, I doubt it will still work.”

“It was a great radio, very strong.” Bellatrix said into the box, throwing a rotten jumper over her shoulder. It landed with a squelch on the stone, just missing Voldemort’s feet. He eyed it with disgust, and moved backwards a little bit.

“Was it waterproof?”

Ignoring him, she dug in deeper. The chest had been extended internally, and she managed to get waist deep into it before she cheered. Returning to the surface, like a diver with submerged treasure, Bellatrix waved the radio over the top of her head. It was probably made in the early seventies and was quite battered however, as she fiddled with the buttons and tuner, it exploded back into life. Voldemort made a comment that it seemed that he had been proven wrong.

The radio crackled on the static for a couple of seconds. The dead air was soon replaced with a woman’s voice, monotonously reading from a cue card.  
“….Newton, Clara Jones, Helena Bones, Theseus Hamilton, Fred Weasley, Molly Weasley, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin, Colin Creevey, Lavender Brown, Vincent Crabbe, Darius Scabior, Severus Snape, Markus Avery Jr, Antinous Jugson, Seneca Mulciber Jr, Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastian Lestrange, Xavier Selwyen, Ixion Travers.” The more that was read, the more they understood. At first it was just random names, but then they recognised them as the names of the dead. Bellatrix had killed Nymphadora herself, and announced as much to the others as they listened.

“And now for the imprisoned.” The woman read, pausing for a moment before reading the names. “Corban Yaxley, Alecto Carrow, Amycus Carrow, Walden Macnair, Thorfinn Rowle, Nathanial Rosier Snr, Octavia Rosier, Theodore Nott Snr, Tobias Snyde, Leola Snyde, Fenrir Greyback, Augustus Rookwood, Dido Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Bellona Avery, Markus Avery Sr. More updates when available. Goodnight, and best wishes to you all.” Then the broadcast finished, falling back into static again.

They fell into silence too. Dolohov gulped, and leant back against the stone wall with his hands behind his head. His eyes were closed. Bellatrix reached out and turned the radio off. Voldemort said nothing. He simply stood up and walked straight back out of the door into the courtyard. They watched him walk out into the middle and stopped next to the fountain. Dolohov and Bellatrix shared a glance in the thirty seconds that he just stood there. That was before he turned, violently, and sent a curse flying into the fountain. It exploded with the force of a hurricane, shattering into shards as sharp as glass.

Bellatrix jumped forward quickly and held the door shut, to stop any of the dangerous shards from entering the hallway. Dolohov would not have been able to get out of the way quick enough – and they did not need to lose any more allies today. A roar of unadulterated fury could be heard on the other side of the door, as well as a ridiculous amount of smashing, shattering noises as the Dark Lord took out his anger on the already disintegrating walls.

“So,” Dolohov coughed, “how are you, Le-Strange?” There was a particularly loud crash on the other side of the door.

“Not bad,” She shrugged, as a flurry of swearwords and curses were spat on the other side of the door, “I am apparently a widow now, though. So, that’s not good.”

“Rodolphus was a good friend. I’ll miss him.” He croaked, a solemn look on his face. Bellatrix wanted to feel sad, but she was slightly distracted by the racket the Dark Lord was making at that moment. “Are you going to go back to your maiden name?”

Before Bellatrix could answer, the door was wrenched open from the outside, startling her and making her stumble a little backwards. The door itself had been impaled with shards of rock of what had once been the fountain (and part of the garden wall). The rotting wood had let them slice into it like a knife though a jelly. The Dark Lord stood in the doorway, with a terrifying look on his face. Blood red eyes, glowing in the force of his anger and all his features contorted, making his already horrifying face even more terrifying.

“Bring him into the great hall.” He hissed to Bellatrix, before storming off, his cloak swishing dramatically behind him as he did so, into the house.

“Do you think we’ll get any rest, or will he have us working to the bone?” Dolohov asked, when he was certain that he was out of earshot. Bellatrix glared at him, reproachfully, and decided to carry him with magic rather than physically pick him up.

“I think you are suffering from the effects of blood loss. It’s the only way that you could think it’s a good idea to question our lord. Especially right now.” She sneered, but was asking herself the same question. Not that she was opposed to fighting till the bitter end (was there a single more romantic idea than that?) but, she was tired. She needed to sleep. The thought of a comfortable couch, and a warm fire pulling her forward, Bellatrix carried Dolohov into the bowels of the home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I set it in Cumbria because I want to be there but can't because my area has been put back into local lockdown? Absolutely. Also, any comments would be most appreciated if you should be unfortunate enough to stumble across my ramblings. 
> 
> (I see Voldemort having violent temper-tantrums and thus this happened.)


	3. Chapter Three

Voldemort sat simmering in a corner. He’d calmed down enough to stop the rampant destruction, but if anything else inconvenient happened, there was no telling what he would do. Hunched up in a motheaten chair (one he was pretty certain he’d seen Bellatrix’s mother vomit on one particularly wild Christmas party in the mid-seventies) Voldemort ran through everything that had happened in the last 24 hours in his mind. It was incomprehensible. How on earth could he have avoided this outcome? Potter was DEAD. He had killed him – Narcissa Malfoy had confirmed it, and (at that point) what reason would she have had to lie? They were on the brink on victory, her bloody idiot son would have been safe! There was no logical reason for her to have lied. Some strong magic must have been at play. Dumbledore must have had something to do with it. A parting gift from the old coot, he was certain. 

Dolohov was slipping in and out of consciousness closer to the fire. It had been a bit of a debate whether to light one or not. Bellatrix didn’t trust that the chimney would stay up, and to be fair to her, it did look very dodgy, but Voldemort knew that Dolohov needed the warmth if he was going to stand any chance of getting better. It was irritating having to consider what was best for others, but considering that the man was now half of his workforce it could not be avoided. 

‘Half of my workforce!’ He thought - miserably. Less than three hours ago he had an army of thousands. Magical creatures bent to his will. He had the most powerful pureblood families in Britain under his thumb, and now look at him. He had two people: a wounded man and a crazy woman. A very capable crazy woman – but crazy nevertheless. The woman in question had hurried off, deeper into the house, in search of anything they could use. 

Dolohov turned slightly on the couch, and the furniture creaked dangerously. The chaise-long was wet and squelchy under him. A chipped cup of tea lay next to Dolohov. He’d drank half of it before passing out again. The idea of touching the stuff made Voldemort’s stomach turn, it was the only thing that was in the kitchen that wasn’t growing. There were bacteria in there unknown to science - it was a horror-show. It was after that he’d left Bellatrix to search on her own; if the rest of this house was as bad as that he would just stay here. Death, blood and destruction he enjoyed, but unsanitary conditions? Not if he could help it. In his weakened state Dolohov didn’t notice the odd flavour of the tea. He would probably be fine, Voldemort thought. 

Quietly, Bellatrix came back into the room, arms filled with blankets and a bag slung over one shoulder. She’d been gone a while - it had been difficult to find anything that wasn’t already destroyed by the elements. She bowed her head to him politely as she came in. 

“Turns out that the ministry didn’t do a great job searching through the house, my Lord.” Bellatrix announced, putting everything down on the dining table gently. “They didn’t find the majority of my dark artifacts, or my jar of change.” She had a pot filled with knuts in one hand, wand waved it like a maraca for a couple of seconds. The Dark Lord glared at her until she stopped, and sheepishly put the pot down on the table. He was not interested in the pot of change that was unlikely to add up to anything more than 10 Galleons. The dark artifacts, however, were a little more interesting. 

“Did they find the amulet under your bedroom floor?” Voldemort asked. He’d given her one – an amulet that made the wearer hear demonic voices until they were driven mad (childish, true but quite a fun dark curse) – many years ago. She smiled, remembering the fun she’d had that Christmas, putting it in Lucius’ stocking, but shook her head.

“Unfortunately, they did find that one. But they didn’t get my voodoo doll, or my Hand of Glory though.” She proudly held the two up. The hand of glory was just as horrifying as it always had been (the severed hand of a murderer stuck to a tallow candle that could be used to help someone sneak around undetected) and it almost cheered Voldemort up to see that it. Almost. The doll was a violently stabbed scrap of cloth and hair that was held together sadly with a few fraying stitches. 

“Whose hair is in the doll?” He asked.

“I think it was Andromeda.” She shrugged. The details were a little foggy, but she did remember trying to drown the doll at one point, before her mother had begged her not to. She had stopped, begrudgingly, and had switched to randomly stabbing it at some points. “It will need a new hair to work again now.” 

“Well that is disappointing.” He grumbled, and returned to glaring at the fire. 

He ignored her shuffling around behind him. He ignored her dumping a blanket on Dolohov (and him groaning in surprise) and her throwing herself down onto another chair with a tin of pineapple. She’d charmed it open and sat with her legs over the arms of the chair and began to dig the pineapple flesh out of the tin. A very nutritious dinner. Bellatrix offered him a tin, but there was nothing he wanted to eat less than cold, fifteen-year-old tinned fruit.

“We need to get out of the country.” It was possible – he’d done it before. Immediately after the Potter incident, Voldemort had fled to Eastern Europe. That time he didn’t have a body, so this time had to be an improvement. When he’d returned to Britain, Voldemort had promised himself that he would never end up fleeing the country again (he hadn’t thought it was an outlandish promise at the time but times change). 

“I have a cousin in Russia who could put us up.” Dolohov mumbled, almost incoherently, as he reached for his cup of tea. Hands shaking, he managed to spill a lot of it on himself. Nobody helped him. 

“The fewer people that know where we are, the better. So, lets avoid the cousin.” Voldemort rolled his eyes. The only other ‘Dolohov’ Voldemort was aware of was a Russian poet with a complicated romantic life. Working with someone like that would not be all that helpful. “I did have a place out in Romania, but I am certain that Dumbledore would have figured that out, so that is compromised.” It was such a nice place too: a perfect hide-out. Such a shame that they would not be able to use it. What he would give to kill Dumbledore again.

“My lord, I think I have an idea…” Bellatrix said, putting the tin down on the table next to her. 

“You think you have an idea? What else would it be? Someone else’s idea? A premonition?” Voldemort knew he was being facetious, but he didn’t care. 

“I have an idea then.” She fought the urge to roll her eyes. If it had been anyone else, Bellatrix would have made a sarcastic response, but given that the Dark Lord was in a particularly foul mood she was not going to chance it. He was less likely to kill her for being cheeky than anyone else, but there was still a limit. “I own a house in Naples. It was my father’s - It’s sort of a long story to be honest but everyone else that knew about it is dead now. It should be the perfect place to hide out for a while.”

This had to be too good to be true. He had to ask a few more questions before he got excited.

“Where in Naples? And, if it was your father’s house how do your sisters not know about it?”

“It’s near the Piazza del Plebiscito, and Father left it to me. He used to bring his mistress there a lot. He knew I wouldn’t tell mother. Andromeda had already left by that point, and Narcissa is a believer in ‘the sanctity of marriage’ so she’d definitely have blabbed.”

“What happened to the mistress?”

“She’s dead. Got struck by lightning of all things. She went on a hike up Ben Nevis in the middle of a storm and that was the consequence.” Bellatrix shrugged. 

“Merlin! Your dad got with Josephine Nott?” Dolohov exclaimed, apparently having heard of the incident before. Bellatrix nodded. Voldemort vaguely remembered the woman; she had been an actress on the stage in Diagon alley. She’d been quite talented, if he remembered correctly. What a comedically terrible way to go, Voldemort thought. 

“So, you have an apartment in the middle of the city? That could work.” It could work very well, actually. The more people there are in a place, the easier it is to blend in. What is three people against the hundreds of thousands in the Bay of Naples? Just taking a few precautions to blend in with them, the authorities hunting for them would have no clue where to start. And, if what Bellatrix said was true, nobody would be suspecting them to go to that area. Russia would be expected – Dolohov was Russian after all – as was Romania given that he’d spent a lot of time there in the past. France could also be expected, given that the Le-Strange family was French and Bellatrix would have connections there. But Italy? Close enough to the UK to be accessible and with no clear connection to any of them so as to be obvious. Quite perfect actually. 

Bellatrix smiled, like a child being given a gold star by her teacher. She picked up her tin of pineapple again and continued to eat it with a pleased look on her face. 

“Does this apartment have any magical defences?” Voldemort asked, “Your father wouldn’t have wanted to be interrupted, I’m sure.” Definitely not. Cygnus Black was a careful man. Bellatrix cringed at that mental image, but nodded. She swallowed her chunk of pineapple before continuing to speak.

“It’s a whole house actually, not an apartment. It’s got similar defences to Grimmauld Place – Father wasn’t all that creative with it. I believe he put a preservative charm on the building last time he was there, so the food should still be ok.” 

“Well thank Merlin for that.” Voldemort sighed, and cracked his neck. He looked over to Dolohov, who had once again fallen unconscious. His chest was covered in cold tea. He looked like a corpse. “He’s not in a fit state to apperate tonight.” Voldemort said, not moving to help Dolohov, or clean him up in any way. It was just an observation. Bellatrix agreed. 

“Maybe in the morning he’ll be better?” She offered with a shrug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this watching Youtube beauty drama videos (because I am trash and have nothing else to do). I could see Voldemort as a beauty guru and I hate myself.


	4. Chapter Four

Dolohov was no better in the morning – in fact, he was a little worse: delirious, slurring his words slightly and was struggling to keep his head up. Bellatrix had taken his temperature with the back of her hand and shook her head. He was feverish, too hot to the touch. Apperating with someone in that state would not be a good idea, Dolohov would either be ripped apart or would pull whoever was carrying him somewhere that they did not want to be. 

Voldemort watched her work, having not moved from the chair he’d been sat in all night. He’d slept there, very uncomfortably, and there was a stiffness in all of his muscles. Bellatrix looked a mess. She was still in her battle-dress, with ash and blood crusted dry over her hands and face, and her hair was matted and knotted. The drab, watery sunlight that fell through the broken windows lit her face, making her look like a painting in a dark parody of muggle nurses or angels. 

“I think that he may need a healer with more skill than me, my lord.” It was the first thing she’d said that morning, her throat croaking slightly because of its lack of use.  
“You’ve done well so far, Bella.” He stood, stretched with a grunt, and walked over to her. Tired. He was tired, physically and emotionally. Bellatrix was too, the dark circles around her eyes pulled him in. Heavy, woollen fabric between his fingers, he put his hand gently on her shoulder. He had intended it to just be a quick, comforting gesture but he pulled her in close anyway; his head rested atop of her hers, her hair tickling where his nostrils would have been. Bellatrix melted into him, her hands curling around his robes and resting her forehead on his chest. 

“If he dies, don’t blame me.” She said, flippantly. It was supposed to be a joke, but the exhaustion in her voice zapped the comedy from the statement. Voldemort smiled into her hair slightly. It was just good to hear that she was still alive enough to try to joke. He needed her right now, her support, her optimism. Everything was crashing and burning around him, but Bellatrix was still there. A monolith of a mortal. Not that he was particularly inclined to tell her that. It would be terrible for his reputation if it was to get out that he cared about her in any way. It would be a disaster should anyone know that he needed human contact. Voldemort was almost glad that Dolohov was unconscious. 

“I won’t. I’ll blame the Order. Then eliminate them.”

“And I’ll be there, my Lord. Till death or victory.” Bellatrix whispered, her lips barely moving. Voldemort was not sure what to say to that. He was grateful for her loyalty, her continued faith in him, but could not think of the right words to both thank her, and not ruin his reputation. However, Bellatrix didn’t let him respond. Slipping out of his arms and stepping backwards, Bellatrix left. “I’ll go, um, open the house.” 

He nodded, letting her go. She was to apperate to Naples, unlock the house and reconnect it briefly to the floo network, whilst he did the same thing with Le-Strange Manor’s fireplace. It was just safer: less likely to be splintched. It was a simple process. The house was reconnected to the network within seconds of her leaving. Dolohov and Voldemort just had to wait for her. 

They did not have to wait long. An explosion of green fire roared unexpectantly in the otherwise dwindling fireplace and Bellatrix’s head poked through. 

“I was right – there is a preservative charm and he’d bought a whole kitchen’s worth of food before he left. I’ve put a coffee on.” Bellatrix said cheerfully. Voldemort grabbed Dolohov’s limp body and pulled him upright. He would not carry him like a princess (he absolutely refused!) – he would have to walk a little bit. Forcing Dolohov’s arm up over his shoulder and grabbing him by the waist for good measure, Voldemort walked through the floo. 

The fireplace opened up into a room with a very high ceiling. Dark, pine green walls stretched straight up to the exposed beams of the roof, and stood in contrast with the brick of the fireplace. It was not as dark as Voldemort would have thought a property that Cygnus Black owned would have been. There was a number of white accent pieces around the room – white lamps, white rugs and even bowl of white primroses on the coffee table. The furniture would have been very fashionable and luxurious in the mid-fifties (which was when Voldemort assumed the house was purchased). It was all mid-century modern furniture – low to the ground, elegant, tartan patterns on the footstools. Four large windows, leading out onto a balcony, sat on one side of the room. Through it, the skyline of the city could be seen. Crystal blue sky, so different from the drizzle they’d just left, smiled around the volcano in the distance. It was beautiful. 

On one wall, above a comfortable couch, was a portrait of the house’ owner himself. Cygnus Black – depicted as a young man – sat scowling down at them as they entered the room. 

“You didn’t say that you were going to bring guests with you, Bellatrix.” The portrait said, accusingly, looking at Dolohov’s state in disgust. 

“It was implied, Father.” Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “And besides, it’s not like you can stop it – you’re in a painting.”

“If I had arms, you’d better believe that you’d regret saying that.” His hand rested on the riding crop he was painted with. Why he would have been painted with one was uncertain – he was not a jockey. Voldemort supposed that the crop was used for the purpose that he was threatening. Bellatrix just laughed at the threat, annoying her father immensely. 

“Too bad you don’t then.”

“Hello Cygnus.” Voldemort said, dumping Dolohov on the couch under the painting. It took the painting a second to realise who it was that was in his house, but as he did Cygnus’ eyes grew wide. He’d died in 1980; Lord Voldemort had not completely lost his human look by that point. He stumbled over his words, welcoming him to the house and apologising for this rudeness to begin with. It was good to see that someone still held him with the respect he deserved, so Voldemort just waved his hand in forgiveness. “How’s death?” He asked, conversationally. 

“Not all that bad,” the painting shrugged. “I have a couple of paintings, so I can move about a bit.”

This reminded Bellatrix of something that she’d forgotten to ask Cygnus. She jumped forward a little bit, to try and catch his attention.

“Right, Father, do not tell anyone we’re here.” She said seriously, talking with her hands. “Don’t say anything to Cissa if she comes to your painting in Malfoy Manor; don’t go to the painting in Grimmauld Place; don’t react if anyone asks you about us. We are not here. Got it?”

“They moved my painting in Grimmauld place, so that won’t be a problem.” He grumbled. “They moved Walpurga too - so I can’t even talk to her anymore.”

“Are you agreeing? Because we can move your painting here too if not!” 

“Yes, of course Bellatrix. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.” Cygnus sighed, defeatedly. He was not scared of them – what could they do to him now? – so Cygnus was not worried about asking the glaring question. “Why should I not tell anyone you’re here?”

“All you need to know is that there has been a set-back. The rest need not concern you, Cygnus.” Voldemort hissed. Cygnus put his hands up in submission and nodded. He apologised for his ‘impertinence’ and stepped back slightly in the frame, making him look smaller. 

Dolohov interrupted any more conversation by retching violently on the couch. Cygnus began to yell that that they needed to get him out of the room before he got any vomit on his beautiful furnishings and Bellatrix complied. She grabbed Dolohov by the back of the neck and dragged him harshly towards the bathroom as quickly as physically possible. They hadn’t been out of sight two seconds before the tell-tale cough of nausea could be heard, followed by the sound of his stomach contents hitting tiles and Bellatrix yelling out in disgust. She loudly swore at him but he was too busy being sick to be able to give any form of an apology. 

“You don’t happen to know of any – discreate – healers in the area. Ones who won’t ask too many questions.” Voldemort asked the painting. Cygnus was unsure of how many of the one’s he’d known would still be practising. He had died eighteen years ago, many of the healers he had frequented would have retired or died by now. Cygnus did however list a few names, which Voldemort took note of and thanked him. Voldemort knew that one had to be more respectful with the older purebloods – they were less likely to bow to you than the others. Foolish. Their children knew better. 

Bellatrix stormed out of the bathroom, the front of her dress all wet as she had quickly washed the vomit off of her front. Muttering under her breath that she was going to kill him and make his intestines into corset lacing, she stomped into the kitchen. 

“Want a coffee?” She shouted to Voldemort. He did, and he followed the sound of her voice into the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's commented on this story so far - you've all made me smile :)
> 
> It's been rainy today so I wrote this chapter and guzzled coffee like a mad-woman so if it sounds ridiculous, that's why lol


	5. Chapter Five

Much like the living room, the kitchen was stylish. Black and white diamond tiles and dark oak counters were paired with the same pine green as the living room. Very comfortable. Floor to ceiling windows covered one wall, looking out over the house’s courtyard garden. This garden was wildly overgrown, full of vines, brambles and wild flowers. Voldemort could see a particularly old lemon tree growing up on the opposite wall. There were a few ripe lemons in its branches, but the majority of the fruits weren’t ready yet. 

Bellatrix was scowling daggers into the kettle, leaning against the cabinets. There was a look of complete and utter insanity in her eyes (as well as murderous intent) as Voldemort quietly walked into the room and stood across the kitchen island from her. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, turning his head sideways to look her in the eyes. She just shook her head, defeatedly. Stifling laughter, Voldemort asked another question: “Was Dolohov sick on you?” She nodded, but then also started smiling. 

“It was full of corn.” She said, then laughed at how horrible it was. Her laughter made him laugh, and they stood there for a couple of minutes just laughing. It wasn’t even that funny; it was mainly the stress of the last day breaking out sideways. 

The kettle boiled loudly and broke the moment. Bellatrix poured the boiling water into the cafetière, but did it too quickly and sent some of the boiling coffee grounds within spurting outwards onto her hand. She swore loudly, but it was not actually all that painful – she mainly did it because she was surprised. After pressing the plunger down, Bellatrix spun around and immediately put her hand under the cold tap. 

“Well done.” Voldemort said sarcastically. 

“A burn is easily fixed.” She responded with a shrug. After pulling her hand out of the tap, she grabbed her wand and fixed it, just like that. She turned back to the island and, consequently, Voldemort. To get a good coffee out of a cafetière, you have to leave it to brew for a few minutes, so Bellatrix pushed it a little bit away from her, to the middle of the kitchen island. 

“That’s probably the only thing that’s easily fixed in this situation.” Voldemort said glumly. He had forgotten momentarily how completely and utterly fucked the whole plan was. Ignorance is bliss, he realised, as the remembrance crushed him mood like a dragon stepping on a pixie. Bellatrix was silent for a moment, biting on her lower lip in thought, as she was unsure of how to respond. Slowly, the smile returned to her face, a soft, comforting one.

“Is anything easy worth doing?” Bellatrix asked, jumping up onto one of the kitchen island stools and putting her elbows on the top, to rest her head on her hands.  
“Well, I mean, breathing is pretty easy. I’d say that’s worth doing.” Voldemort deadpanned. Bellatrix glared at him, raising her eyebrows, apparently not finding the glib comment all that funny. Well, he did. 

“There is so much to do to even get back to the point I was at yesterday – let alone actually finish or even succeed in the plan. I am back at square one.”

“At least this time you don’t have to deal with Wormtail.” Bellatrix said, moving her arms out and twirling her hands in a very ‘look at the benefits’ movement. “And, this time you don’t have to think about regaining a body – so that’s a plus.”

He wondered if he should tell her that Potter had managed to destroy all of his horcruxes, or if he should save that little surprise for later. He would not have to worry about ‘regaining a body’ any time soon because a stray killing curse (or anything for that matter) would have taken him out. He actually hadn’t thought about how many ways he could die, now that he was mortal again, and he was not sure that he wanted to start going that rabbit hole. 

“True, the company is much better this time.” 

She smiled, keeping her lips together and lifting one eyebrow. She tipped her head down slightly but said nothing, instead busied her hands by making the coffees. He didn’t need to tell her how he took his – she already knew. 

“I would be a little worried if you thought Wormtail was better company than me.” Bellatrix charmed the milk jug to float out of the fridge and towards her. She flicked her hair over one shoulder, casually, showing him her neck and shoulder. “I would have suggested for you to get your eyes checked.”

“If anyone preferred Wormtail to you, I would have suggested that they spend a few days recovering from whatever illness they had in St. Mungo’s.” He couldn’t help the smirk that was on his face. 

“A very wise statement there.” Bellatrix said slyly, mixing the milk into his coffee slowly with a silver spoon. It hit the side of the coffee mug with a tinkle every so often. Voldemort walked slowly around the island, towards the stools and where Bellatrix was sitting. Normally towering over her, the tall bar-stool put Bellatrix closer to his height than normal.  
“Or, alternatively, I would just kill them – because they’re clearly a lost cause at that point.” He stood at her side; her arm so close she could feel the fabric of his robes lightly brushing her. A pleasant shudder went up her spine, and Voldemort grinned. 

“But first,” She let go of the coffee mug, leaving it forgotten on the countertop, and twizzled around on the stool, so that she was looking straight at him. At his lips anyway. “I would show them how wrong they were. Maybe they’d see the error in their judgement after a few hits of the crutiatus.” 

“Should do it, yeah.” He said, barely audibly, before kissing her. It was soft – almost chaste compared to their usual escapades. One of his hands cupped her jaw and the other found itself on her back, gently pressing her closer to himself. Both of Bellatrix’s hands were around his head, fingers behind his ears and thumbs slowly moving backwards and forwards along his jaw. 

They’d ended up like this countless times, but it never seemed to lose its shine. Amazing really, when you’ve been sleeping with someone for decades, but he couldn’t deny it. Every time was wonderful. Whether it was an expression of pent up stress, genuine passion or comfort, he had never had a bad time with Bellatrix Le-Strange (or should that be Black now – given that Rodolphus was dead? He’d think about that later). 

Bellatrix was the one to change the pace. Her legs slowly wrapped around him like a snake as she deepened the kiss. He was far from complaining. His hands found their way to the lacings on the back of her corset, fiddling with the fastenings. She loved her corset, and Voldemort agreed that she looked great in it, but bloody hell it was annoying to get her out of. She sat up, trying to make it easier for him to untie them. Her own hands were slipping into his robes, trying to remove the outer layers. A moan escaped from Bellatrix mouth, desperate.

“I CAN HEAR YOU TWO!” Cygnus shouted from the next room. “IF I COULD STOP YOU I WOULD! PLEASE GO INTO A BEDROOM IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE SINFUL!”

They separated, lips bruised, a little embarrassed. Bellatrix readjusted her dress slightly. Voldemort rolled his eyes at the hypocrisy of the man – hadn’t he bought this house for just that purpose? 

“He is so, so lucky that he’s already dead.” Voldemort growled, and Bellatrix laughed. 

“Probably for the best-” She sighed, “I still have vomit residue on my front.” She looked down at the damp patch on the bodice. Voldemort wanted to say that it wouldn’t matter once the dress was off, but he could tell that the mood had been swiftly killed by Cygnus. He nodded, and stepped back from her, picking up the coffee as he did so. 

“THAT’S BETTER!” Cygnus’ voice could be heard again. Bellatrix groaned, irritated, and got up from the stool. Shaking her head, she brushed down her skirt and walked out.

“Right, I’m having a shower.” She said as she left. Voldemort let her go, sipped on the coffee and plotted how to kill the painting for a second time.


	6. Chapter Six

Several relatively uneventful days had passed since their arrival in Naples, and Dolohov was finally feeling well again. This was no thanks to Cygnus. His entire list of healers had been defunct – majority of them were dead, several had lost their minds and one had turned snitch for the Italian Ministry and had spent the last fifteen years selling out his entire clientele. Bellatrix hoped the house on Capri was worth it. She’d scrounged the back alleys and less upstanding businesses in the area to try and find any sort of blood rejuvenator potion. The one she’d found did work, but had the unfortunate side effect of knocking Dolohov out cold for seventy-two hours straight. It was good to see him awake again, to say the least. 

Every day, after making sure that Dolohov was still breathing, either Bellatrix or Voldemort returned to Britain to find out what was going on. There was still no plan on how to regain their lost power, but they had caught themselves up on how the Order had restructured the country. 

The Daily Prophet had announced the day after the battle that Kingsley Shacklebolt had been made interim Minister for Magic; the day after that it had announced the dismantlement of the muggle-born registration department. As the days went on, it was just more and more news. Each addition of the newspaper (and on wanted posters on pretty much every street corner) included the bounty that was now placed on their heads. Combined, the money added up to be higher than the GDP of some countries. Bellatrix found herself oddly proud of this fact. 

Transfiguring her features, Bellatrix had gone incognito into Diagon Alley. That morning, she’d walked out of the bathroom, disguised and did a sarcastic twirl in front of Voldemort. She’d softened her features – taken away the sharp edges of the House of Black – and had given herself a heart-shaped face. Black curls were straightened and lightened to a mousy brown, and her eyes had been changed from brown to grey. 

“How do I look?” 

Voldemort’s eyes rose from yesterday’s newspaper and looked her up and down. Looking particularly at the pastel purple robes she’d worn to blend in, he made a face.

“Disgusting.”

“Ok - good.” She said cheerfully, and left.

There were aurors everywhere! Crawling around every street, every business, every park. Most of them were young though – very young. It looked to Bellatrix as though all of them were fresh out of school; a few of them she recognised from the battle but did not know their names. None of them would have been equipped to actually fight her (or even Dolohov) if she challenged them. If it was the Dark lord? They wouldn’t even know what hit them.

Bellatrix wanted to cause some chaos. Burning things to the ground, kidnapping people, rampant destruction, random (and not so random) murder – she wanted to do it all. But Voldemort had specifically told her not to. He’d been very insistent that they were currently in hiding and would cause fear by the fact that nobody knew where they were for the time being. It was not Bellatrix’s idea of a good-time, but she was not going to argue. So, she sat in the pub, listening to two young aurors chat loudly about what they’d been assigned to do (idiots), took notes and wished she could show them what a real battle was like. 

After three days of this, they had enough information, Voldemort decided, that they could begin the rebuilding. 

“So, you’ve finally decided to join us?” Voldemort said as Dolohov came down the stairs. Voldemort and Bellatrix had already been awake for some time, sitting around the dining table studying all the maps, papers and random notes that were spread across it. Several plates of breakfast foods, a pot of coffee and a few pots of different jams were also scattered around the table. Voldemort had gotten dressed, but Bellatrix had not. She was sitting – her hair tied up in a messy bun – in a black, knee length dressing gown. A mug was clutched in her talon fingers, like she was clinging onto it for dear life. She was purposefully not thinking about where the dressing gown had come from: she did not want to know. 

“Thank you for giving me time to recover, my lord.” Dolohov said, bowing politely, and sitting at the spare chair across from him. Bellatrix offered him the plate of toast that they’d put in the middle of the table. Dolohov took a piece gratefully. 

“What else could have been done? It’s not like there are people to spare at the moment.” Voldemort pointed out. Dolohov had not thought of that; his memory of everything since being injured was pretty fuzzy, and he was not sure what was real and what he had dreamed. 

“You could have decided I wasn’t worth the effort to revive,” Dolohov said, “and I am grateful that you didn’t, my lord.” He bit into the toast. 

“Well, you can use that gratitude and channel it into helping to get the others out of Azkaban.” Voldemort sighed, not really in the mood for the grovelling. It was just getting in the way of the real work. 

“So, that is what we are doing then?”

“That will be easier than new recruitment. Unfortunately, the dementors are terribly fickle creatures, and they will not turn to our side again so soon after such a stupendous loss. They simply do not believe that they will get what they want by working with us. So, we cannot just repeat what was done in ’96.” Voldemort explained, gesturing to the notes Bellatrix had collected at the Leakey Cauldron the day before. 

Bellatrix had been restlessly tapping her leg, but at the mention of the last break-in, she’d fallen very still. She could not shake the creeping sense of terror that sat low in her gut whenever it was mentioned. Her logical mind told her that she would never be back in the prison, would never be trapped with dementors again, but the unconscious mind thought otherwise. Both Voldemort and Dolohov noticed, but said nothing. What could any of them have said to make it better? 

“We will have to act quickly.” Bellatrix said quietly. “Most of them are weak. They’ll crumble in there. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen.” She was thinking of Barty, and how sick he’d been before the big switch. They’d only been in Azkaban for eight months and he was slipping away so quickly. Both she and Rodolphus had tried to keep him awake, asking him questions, insulting him, throwing things at him, anything to stop him falling into a coma. Bellatrix had been stuck between absolute fury and acceptance when he had been smuggled out of the building. On one hand, she was incensed that nobody had ever tried to get her out, and that Crouch Snr had been such a hypocrite to act like his son was above the punishment he’d dealt out to others. On the other hand, however, she knew that it was the only way that Barty was going to survive the year. At the time, she’d thought that maybe he would get the rest of them out afterwards. Bellatrix had been wrong, but the hope had helped her. That hope had lead her to be nicer to his mother while she was there. Bellatrix had made polite conversation, just as her mother had taught her to, with Barty’s mother up until her death. Such a weak woman, a kind, wilting lily. She’d been dead by the end of the month. 

“I supposed we’ll just have to hope your survival will have inspired them, Bella.” Voldemort said, not looking her in the eye. She nodded, grimly. 

“And, you can use the knowledge you’ve acquired to make sure that the rest of them get out before that happens.” Dolohov offered, toast still in his mouth. “And, if they do crumble, you can be superior in the knowledge that you are stronger than them.” He said jokily, trying to release the tension. Bellatrix had to smile.

“What, just stand over their corpses and gloat?” She refilled her mug of coffee. “Like, ‘I get that you’re dead but I win'?” She mimed stepping over the bodies of her colleagues and put on a ridiculous voice during the fake gloating. 

“Make them dance like they are in a cheesy opera or something. I think the Carrows would make a beautiful pair of ballerinas.” Dolohov grinned, and Bellatrix laughed at the mental image. 

“Yaxley would be a great salsa dancer.” Voldemort commented dryly, shifting through the papers in front of him. 

“Merlin, imagine the money that show would make in the theatre business.” Bellatrix said, all tension from before having left her body, happily repressed under the image of everyone she’d worked with for years as sideshow dancing corpses. 

“In all seriousness though,” Dolohov said, having just finished his toast and reaching for another one, “even if they do all die, they could possibly be used to make infiri. So, probably fine either way.” 

“That is an excellent point,” Voldemort nodded, picking up a quill and handing it to Dolohov across the table. “write that down, we’ll add it to the ideas pile.” He complied, putting his toast back down again and looking around for a free piece of parchment. He found the pile of ‘ideas’ that had already been suggested. DO A SIRIUS – was written on one of the pieces of paper on top. It was Bellatrix’s handwriting; almost illegible in its tall, swirly typography. Dolohov looked up in confusion to Bellatrix, his expression asking for an explanation. He picked it up and showed it to her and she nodded. 

“He was an animagus then slipped out in dog form.” Bellatrix explained, her lip curling in disgust just thinking about Sirius. Having blood traitors in the family was never a positive thing. She did find it mildly amusing that his animagus form would be that of a mangy dog though. “The thing is, I’m not entirely sure how he got off the island after getting out of the castle. He couldn’t have apparated, nobody came to pick him up, I sincerely doubt that he swam back to land. It’s in the middle of the North Sea – even in dog form he would either have drowned or frozen to death. He didn’t have his wand and would have been too weak for wandless magic. So, that might be a problem.” She shrugged and sipped on her coffee. She’d made it a bit strong, and made a face. This did not prevent her drinking more of it though. 

“Does being an animagus grant you better endurance?” Dolohov asked, then confessed he knew little about the magic. Bellatrix was as clueless as he was (she’d never found the idea of become inhuman in any way all that appealing). Both turned to Voldemort expectantly. He was more comprehensively knowledgeable than either of them; both Bellatrix and Dolohov had specialised quite early, whereas Voldemort had taken more time to learn a range of different magical disciplines. 

“I’ve heard it merely gives you the endurance of the animal you become but nothing more. Dogs can swim for longer in cold water, so it’s not impossible that he just did that.” He explained. They had to accept that was the only real explanation that they were going to get. It wasn’t like they could ask Sirius how he did it. Not that he would have told them his daring plan, even if he was still alive. 

There were other suggestions sitting just under the Sirius one: DISTRACTION, SWARM WITH INFIRI, BLOW UP THE ROOF, SEDUCE THE GUARDS, GET A GIANT, DIG A TUNNEL, MERMAIDS? (Dolohov was not sure why mermaids had a question mark after it but was hesitant to ask), POLYJUICE, BRIBE THE GUARDS etc. Some of them sounded like they could work, but they were very clearly early in their development. Given the tiredness in Voldemort’s eyes, and the slight lunacy in Bellatrix’s, Dolohov knew that it was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm going back to college next week and after that it is going to be a bit longer between updates. In the meantime, expect quite a few lol 
> 
> (Also thank you for all the lovely comments 


	7. Chapter Seven

The bathroom smelled like mangoes. There was a mango scented candle, mango bubble bath, mango shampoo, mango hand soaps and mango face scrub. Bellatrix had nothing against mangos – they were a perfectly fine fruit all things considered – but this seemed a bit extensive. Why not spice it up a bit? Have some apple scented shampoo or something. She would have noticed if her childhood home was as filled with mango as this house, so she was left to assume that this was the mistress’ doing, not her fathers. 

Deep in almost boiling water (her philosophy being ‘are you really clean if your skin isn’t screaming?’), Bellatrix had been sat in the bath for quite a long time. She had already messed about with all the ridiculous mango bathroom products and had gotten bored. They were strewn around the bathroom now, as she refused to get out of the bath to put them away, so she’d just thrown them at full pelt across the room. She just wanted to see whether they would explode. They didn’t. 

She’d needed to just get away from the others for a while; they’d been trying think of a way to get the other deatheaters out of Azkaban for almost eight hours and had made very little progress. It was the geography surrounding the fortress that had them stumped. It was the perfect prison – there were few ways that they would be able to take it by force. Putting the dementor issue aside, mainly because Bellatrix did not want to think about them in any way, the island was about twenty miles away from land, in the middle of the North Sea. It wasn’t like it was a particularly calm body of water, or somewhere with brilliant weather, or somewhere warm. She just couldn’t think about it anymore. It seemed like a hopeless situation. Plunging her head deep under the water, she curled up her body then sat back straight again. Her hair was plastered down her neck and back, made even darker than usual by the weight of the water. 

Leaning back on the edge of the tub, Bellatrix closed her eyes. She sighed. It was stressful, thinking so much about that place. The warmth of the water kept her from falling back into the memories. Back into the cold – so frigid that her bones felt like they would shatter. Her blood had felt thick in her veins, like the surface of a lake just starting to freeze. No shoes or socks, only a thin scrap of cotton between sensitive skin and the frozen sea air. The sea air had been so salty that her hair had always been felt crunchy. Even in the summer she’d looked like there was ice crystals in her hair but it wasn’t – it was just salt. She remembered seeing Rodolphus through the bars of his cell and being taken aback by how white his beard had been, before realising that it wasn’t his hair colour, it was just the salt that was caught in it. 

The food, when it arrived, was always cold. Dumped out of a packet, or made days before, it had never been good, hearty or filling in any way. It didn’t help that the dementors made a person not want to eat either. No wonder so many prisoners starved to death in there. When they’d been rescued, Bellatrix knew she looked like a skeleton. Rodolphus had too, skin stretched too tightly over bone and nothing else. His tattoos looked misshapen on the sickly yellow skin, eyes were bloodshot, hair was stringy and ragged. He had looked like a corpse, and now (she remembered) he actually was.

She didn’t know how to feel. She and Rodolphus had never been particularly close at any point in their lives. They barely knew each other through their childhoods, him being four years older than her, then at Hogwarts they interacted only in the Slug-Club. Back then, Bellatrix had liked him, he was funny, but it was never anything more than a passing acquaintance. Neither of them wanted to marry each other, but neither had an alternative partner to elope with. Apathetic, they’d gone along with it. You don’t have to love each other to work well together – and what is a marriage if not a team? Becoming Deatheaters had both strengthened and destroyed their bond. They were colleagues, rivals, but not lovers. The teamwork remained strong, but any form of romantic love that had been there died. 

Still, she could not deny that she would miss him. He’d done a lot of good for her. He’d made her laugh. He’d played the part of loving husband in front of her family, made all the excuses in the world as to why they wouldn’t be getting any grandchildren soon, and she’d done the same for him. How could she not be a little fond of him; she’d seen him every day since she was nineteen – even Azkaban had been unable to stop that. During those horrible, frozen days in her cell, with the dementors and the sea breeze sucking all the warmth from her soul, Rod would reach his fingers through the crack in the mortar between their cells. They could just clasp each other’s fingers. They wouldn’t talk. It was just comforting to Bellatrix to know that there was someone else there, going through what she was. There were tears in her eyes now, completely involuntary. Where were those fingers now? Had they left him laying cold on the cobbles of Hogwarts? Or had they taken him away? He didn’t want to be cremated, had that been respected or had they just chucked him into the fire? Bellatrix cracked her neck and fingers, then wiped her eyes with a washcloth. She would not cry. Rodolphus, she decided, was worth more sorrow than she was able to give him. 

There was suddenly the sound of someone in the hallway outside, Bellatrix could hear the sound of shoes on wood. Before she could say anything, the door knob was turning and the door was thrown open. Bellatrix ducked under the bubbles a bit further and started saying that she was in the bath and to ‘get the hell out’ before she looked up at who it was that had interrupted her. It was Voldemort. 

“Oh, sorry.” He said, immediately turning on his heel and walking back out again. “Lock the door Bella.” He said when he was outside. 

“I thought it was locked.” She said, using wandless magic to move the bolt back across. She knew she didn’t have to respond, he had already gone, probably to the other bathroom. Bellatrix turned the hot tap back on with her foot, the heat not quite up to cooking lobster anymore and she wanted to mildly boil herself, and relaxed again. 

She wondered whether or not Voldemort would miss her if she’d been killed. What if it had been her to be taken out by the shrapnel, instead of Rodolphus? Or if, in that final duel with the Weasley woman, she’d been killed (not that Bellatrix thought that was remotely possible). How would he have reacted? Would he have avenged her? She wasn’t sure. Bellatrix didn’t want to lie to herself – she was aware that he didn’t love her. He’d said so on many occasions, especially in the beginning of the little affair. But that didn’t mean that he would not care if she was dead. 

The first night she’d spent out of Azkaban, he’d come to see her. Warm for the first time in decades, Narcissa had wrapped Bellatrix in blankets; forced tomato soup down her throat until she was threatening to be sick and piled the fire high in the grate. It had been after Narcissa had departed to bed when Voldemort had arrived. Her eyes had been barely open, but the darkness moving closer to her still caught her attention. 

He’d stepped into the light and she’d gotten her first look at his new face. The face she’d remembered was gone, submerged in the new, serpentine features. Dark hair no longer covered his head, skin had gone freakishly pale, his eyes had lost their green hue and had turned scarlet (they lit up demonically in the firelight) and his nose had completely gone. Still, the jawline was the same; cheekbones as sharp as ever; eyes and mouth were still the same shape. It took Bellatrix a couple of seconds, but she was sure that it was him. 

“…my lord?” Her heart fluttered in her chest as they locked eyes. He’d looked surprised momentarily, like he didn’t know that she was awake when he’d come in. That hadn’t lasted long. He’d smiled and moved completely silently over to the side of the bed. 

“Hello Bellatrix.” His voice had not changed either. Bellatrix had smiled softly “It’s been quite a while hasn’t it?”

“…too long…” She’d croaked, her vocal cords weakened by the whole experience. She had cringed internally at the sound of her voice; she had sounded like a very elderly woman. Bellatrix had tried to sound conversational – she wanted to sound like nothing had changed. “Looks like you’ve been busy.” 

“Very busy,” He agreed, matching how casual she was. He sat down on the side of the bed next to her frail legs. “coming back to life, infiltrating the ministry and trying to rescue you, excreta.”

“…glad to be included in that list…feel very important.” Her hand had found its way up, resting on his knee. There was no weight in her touch – there couldn’t have been as there was no weight in her body – but she still felt him jump slightly. He’d covered it up well, but she still felt it. Terror had struck her then; had things changed too much? Did he not want to be near her anymore? Did he not care? All worries were set aside when, seconds later, he put his hand atop of hers. 

“You should – the rest of them are snivelling traitors. I missed having loyal followers around. And, there is nobody more loyal than you, Bella.” He said softly, thumb slowly moving back and forth comfortingly on the back of her hand. The sound of the nickname had warmed her better than anything Narcissa had done the entire day. 

“I’d go right back there if you asked me to – my lord.” And she hadn’t been lying. Bellatrix would have gone through any number of tortures for him. She would have died for him. She had killed for him. Just being around him made all of her nerves electric. Everything he did was magical, truly. She loved him. Real love – not the shambling husk of love that she’d had for Rodolphus. How could she promise anything less? 

“I know, and I appreciate that. But I won’t ask you to, I promise.” It was the most comforting he had ever sounded. He’d leant forward and kissed her forehead, lightly. She knew he basked in her delight. “You have far more important things to do here. When you’re full recovered of course.”

“I can’t wait.” Bellatrix had said excitedly, as much as possible she could with how damaged her voice box was. 

Back in the bath, Bellatrix sighed. No, he didn’t love her, she could accept it. But that didn’t change the fact that she loved him. Did the knowledge that he didn’t love her change anything? No, she was content with the current arrangement. She was happy – what would telling him the truth do? Nothing. It wasn’t worth fucking everything up. Water dripped off of her as she climbed out of the bath. It was so hot her entire body steamed as she stepped down onto the fluffy white carpet. Lightly dabbing her hair dry with the towel (she hadn’t the patience to dry it properly) then tying the towel around herself, Bellatrix left the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this angst? Or just annoying? One of the two
> 
> Also did you know that mango can be a symbol of love, wealth, fertility and even immortality? Well you do now!


	8. Chapter Eight

24th October 79 AD; Mount Vesuvius erupted. The Roman towns of Pompeii, Herculaneum, Oplontis and Stabiae were enveloped into the earth. Ash fell like rain, the mountain that had enriched the lives of the people turned on them spitting fire and brimstone at them with a vengeance. It filled their lungs with fire and sucked the air from them. The people drowned in the violence of the eruption. 16,000 people died. 

Herculaneum, a wealthy seaside resort at the time, was decimated by a pyroclastic flow that tore down that side of the mountain. The town was carbonised, protected from looters and the elements, and left to time under the earth. When it was rediscovered, 300 skeletons of men, women and children were discovered in the old boat-houses. Their bodies were found contorted and screaming, huddled together in desperation, preying to the unfeeling Gods that cursed them to this horrible end. They clung together, waiting for the boats that never came to save them. 

Hidden in the excavated remains, a particularly entrepreneurial dark creature set up his shop. Down, in a forgotten Roman brothel, an ancient little goblin sat, peddling his wares to anyone who found their way in. It was this shop that Bellatrix had suggested they look into that morning at breakfast. 

“Ah yes!” Cygnus’ painting interrupted Bellatrix explaining where the place was. “I acquired a sphynx from there in 1956. Ended up selling the creature for eight times the price to a dealer from Azerbaijan. Do you remember that holiday we spent in Japan when you were five Bellatrix?”

“Not really, but that’s not what’s important right now Father.” Bellatrix, irritated, tried to steer the conversation back to the topic at hand, but Cygnus seemed determined to keep interrupting.

“That’s such a shame, it was a great holiday. Your mother was pregnant with Narcissa at the time -”

“Father, stop!”

“We stayed in that gorgeous hotel in the shadow of mount Fuji.”

“FATHER!”

“You and another little girl ran off into the woods and we had to spend hours looking for you - ”

“Cygnus!” Voldemort snapped. The painting was getting on his nerves; if he interrupted one more time Voldemort was going to set the bloody thing on fire. He was probably trying to make up for all the years he’d been locked in the house by himself but that did not excuse the rudeness. “Can we please have this …charming… conversation at a different time? Preferably at a time when we’re not busy?”

Cygnus nodded, now suddenly mute, and Dolohov (having been sat smirking the whole time) laughed.

“Anyway,” Bellatrix hissed, “They have some interesting shit. Maybe something that could be helpful in the Azkaban break-in.” Everyone ignored Cygnus whispering angrily about foul language. 

Voldemort trusted Bellatrix’s knowledge of black-market sellers. She always seemed to know where the best ones were, always seemed to have connections in the field, always seemed to find the best artifacts. Back in the first war, he’d sent her on many missions to retrieve helpful things. The best was when she’d returned from San Francisco with an ancient Babylonian manuscript on Necromancy, which had been extremely helpful when creating the Infiri. The worst had definitely been the ‘genie’ in a bottle, which had turned out to just be a very angry banshee. 

Dolohov was very excited by the idea of going to Herculaneum. Apparently, he had been once as a child and remembered the sight of the huddled-up muggle skeletons in the boathouses. He chatted passionately about how wonderful the ruins were as the three of them donning their disguises. Before they had set off, he’d scurried up the stairs – probably unsafely given how injured he had been – and returned several minutes later with a fancy looking camera. It could not have been his; it must have belonged to Cygnus Black. 

“Are you sure that you want to use that?” Voldemort asked him, as Bellatrix was locking up the house. 

“Yes. It’s a beautiful camera, my lord, and I actually want to get a photograph of the skeletons this time!” There was a childish giddiness in his eyes that was slightly comedic, like a schoolboy who had just been told he was going on a school-trip. 

“You are aware that this was Cygnus Black’s ‘love-nest’? There may be photographs that you don’t want to see on that camera.” Voldemort warned. A look of horrified realisation hit Dolohov, just as Bellatrix hopped down the steps. Voldemort was laughing as they apparated away. 

The ruined city was a lot more beautiful that Voldemort had expected. They apparated out into the entrance to the Roman bathhouse. The roof and walls were white – or would have been white back when it was first plastered but had since become a darker, dirtier grey colour – but it was the floor that was quite beautiful. A huge, black and white mosaic covered the entire space. The mosaic depicted Triton, the son of Neptune and Amphitrite, the merman surrounded by fish, squid and octopi. Over his shoulder, the merman held a bat of some description – what was that supposed to be used for? – and in the other hand he held a conch shell trumpet. It was quite striking, and Voldemort stepped backwards to get a better look at it. Dolohov took a photograph. 

Stepping outside, Bellatrix started looking around intently, trying to find the specific building that they were looking for. A few muggle tourists were wandering around and, like Dolohov, were taking photographs. The streets were paved with grey flagstones; these weren’t regular, and were instead just placed in randomly, still fitting together however. The walls were all a whitish-brown colour. Some of them were several stories, but most were missing their roofs. Every so often, there was something scrawled in Latin on the walls – nearly incomprehensible but there were definitely words. 

“Don’t you speak Latin, Bella?” Voldemort asked and, when she responded positively, he continued, “ok, what does this say?” He pointed to a scribbled piece of graffiti on the wall nearest to them. She squinted at the wall for a couple of seconds then laughed.

“It says…” She had to catch her breath, “Apollinaris, the doctor of the emperor Titus, shat well here.” 

Dolohov guffawed, and took a photograph of the bizarre statement while Voldemort just shook his head.

“Good to know that the art of graffiti has remained just as…beautiful…throughout history.” Voldemort said. 

They left Dolohov outside the shop; he was not all that interested in shopping, really wanted to see the remains, and he would be useful as a lookout. It was unlikely that anyone would look for them here, but better safe than sorry. Standing on the steps up to the brothel/shop door, Bellatrix turned to Voldemort with a giddy smile. She wiggled her eyebrows excitedly. 

“Ready?”

“Let’s just hope they have something useful.”

Stepping inside, it was hard to imagine that there any place could be more stuffed with magical objects. The walls had been extended as far as the magic possibly could have sustained it without affecting the outer walls and every inch of the place was covered, aside from a small pathway between the mountains of things. There was probably everything a person could possibly need in there; it all rested on how willing to dive through junk that person was to find that one piece of treasure. 

The shopkeeper was a grizzled, old goblin. Hairless aside from a few white whiskers right on the top of his head, he was hunched over an equally crowded desk. Huge spectacles – probably regular human ones, but looking enormous on his smaller face, sat on the tip of his nose. Beady green eyes peered through the glass, following their every move closely. 

“Buon giorno.” He croaked, politely tapping his long nails on the tiny bit of desk left exposed. Bellatrix responded with the correct greeting, her being more proficient in Italian than Voldemort. “Cosa state cercando?” He asked them what they were looking for, his eyes following them closely as they looked around.

“Noi siamo solo dare un'occhiata, grazie.” Bellatrix said that they were just browsing, with a polite, false smile. The shopkeeper nodded, and returned to reading a magazine he had in front of him. Wise – he knew when not to press for more information. Voldemort supposed it came with the position of black-market salesman. 

Bellatrix and Voldemort split, so as to cover more ground in the expansive shop. After looking around for a while, mainly peering through the useless, the fake and the extortionate Voldemort saw something around one of the piles of detritus that looked promising. A caged animal. The creature was tiny, most definitely a new-born and probably had only been removed from its mother within the last couple of days. It was distinctive, there was no mistaking what the creature was. A Chimera. All three of its heads were fast asleep. The lion head faced towards him, growling lightly like snores. The goat head, on the back of the lion head’s neck, was curled up backwards on top of the lion head. It didn’t look all that comfortable but it was sleeping like an elderly koala. It was however the snake head that Voldemort gravitated to. It was situated where the tail of an ordinary lion would have been. The scales were a light whitish-cream colour, that blended well into the yellow fur on the lion part of the beast, and its little beady black eyes were open despite it being completely dead to the world. It was beautiful – the snake bit in particular to Voldemort but the whole creature was majestic. He turned his head to the side, getting a better look at the sleeping monster. Suddenly, the lion head sneezed in its sleep, and a gust of fire shot from its nostrils. Voldemort had to step back slightly to avoid the flame, but he was impressed. There was no price tag attached to the cage, but he was sure that it would be extortionately expensive. 

Adjacent to the chimera cage was a display case full of curse tablets. Voldemort recognised them, not through having used them before, but from a history of dark magic lecture he’d been to in Paris just after getting out of Hogwarts. They were one of the first forms of distant cursing ever created and had long since been abandoned for more modern, efficient ways of doing the same thing. The cabinet had many different example curses, some of them clearly Roman in origin. The oldest one had been translated into several different languages, English included, so the customers could decipher it no matter where they had come from. 

“To the vile villain, Docimedis, whom stole a great mare from the charioteer Primulus, may he be devoured by the worms and maggots that crawl in the digestive tract of the horses he fails to care for properly. May these insects penetrate his hands, chest and head, and may the pain be unbearable.”  
These words were carved deep into the lead of the tablet, written backwards from right to left instead of the usual left to right. The thin lead sheet had been folded in half then had been pierced with nails to keep the fold secure. The shopkeeper had straightened it out so that people could read the inscription but the fold lines were still visible. The nails were laid out next to it. 

Seeing the curse tablet set the cogs whirring in Voldemort’s mind. Simple to make, highly effective (Docimedis wouldn’t have stood a chance) and out of favour. He knew for a fact that curse tablets had not been present on the Defence against the Dark Art’s course for at least two hundred years and he only knew about them from a short description in a history lecture. It hadn’t even been the main topic of the presentation; it had been little more than a footnote. The aurors were taught about dark magic currently ‘fashionable’ in dark circles but they would have no idea what to do against something so archaic. He smiled – the groundwork of a plan slowly beginning to build itself in his mind. 

“Seen something?” Bellatrix asked cheerfully, putting her hand on his shoulder gently as she walked up behind him. 

“A few things, how about you?” Voldemort turned to look at her, and looked pointedly at the ugly little figurine she held in her other hand. Brown, clay, squat, the figure was about the size of a large book. It was a pretty textbook standard golem. 

“Indeed, I’ve had an idea.” She brandished it, a proud look on her face as if she had a perfect idea on how to use it. 

“Do go on.”

“So, he has a box of golems and they can be quite violent if properly commanded to do so. I remember that Cissa and I got one as children and set it on Sirius. It beat the ever-loving crap out of him, it was hilarious.” She made sure not to mention what the would be using it for, and not to mention battle or war in any way. You could not be sure whether the shopkeeper spoke English after all. “Could be useful, don’t you think?” She said carefully. Voldemort nodded; she had a point: they could be very useful as a distraction tactic. 

“Get a couple,” He said, then, much quieter, continued, “only get one or two, they’re very easy to recreate so long as you have something to copy. No need to waste money.” Would not want the shopkeeper to overhear that. Bellatrix nodded, and stepped backwards to pick up another one. Voldemort’s eyes flicked back to the chimera, debating whether or not to buy it. The snake head was awake now, looking straight at him curiously. He wondered if it could sense that he was a parselmouth. Still, he wondered whether or not it would look suspicious if two random foreigners just bought a dangerous, highly regulated creature. It was beautiful though, and something that could be used in the break-in. As Bellatrix turned back around, Voldemort gestured for her to follow him back towards the cage.

“Oh, wow!” Bellatrix gasped, wrapping her fingers around the bars of the cage and leaning in as close as she dared to the chimera baby. Voldemort wasn’t sure what the right name would be: cub, kid, snaklet, kitten? It didn’t matter. “Aren’t you adorable?!” She squeaked, in the ridiculous baby voice that she saved for cute animals and taunting people whilst torturing them. He couldn’t help but smile at her reaction. “How much is it?”

“Do you want to ask him?”

“Sure - mi scusi signore, quanto costa?” Bellatrix turned quickly and caught the attention of the goblin, pointing towards the cage. The goblin squinted hard in the direction she pointed to, and grinned wildly, with serrated teeth. 

“Inglese, sì?” Bellatrix nodded, and Voldemort was glad that he’d spoken cautiously, because the bastard apparently did speak English. “Let’s say 500,000 galleons. She’s a pure-bred chimera. Very strong, powerful.” The goblin spoke with a strong accent and a wicked grin. 

“She’s very beautiful, true,” Bellatrix nodded, and by the tone of her voice, Voldemort knew that she was about the start haggling. He wasn’t going to stop her, but he did hope that she’d play it right. “But she’s a bit young to be away from her mother, don’t you think? They’re difficult to deal with when they’re taken too early.”

“She’s very healthy.” The goblin growled. Out of the corner of his eye, Voldemort watched the creature get to her feet and plod wobblily over to the side where all the commotion was happening, all three heads watching them curiously. 

“Health and behaviour problems don’t always correlate, do they? Shall we say 250,000, because of her age.” Bellatrix haggled, with a charming smile. The kind of look that a human wouldn’t have been able to refuse. The goblin however was not impressed. 

“450” He barked.

“300” 

“400” He said desperately. 

“350” 

The goblin put his hands up in the air and grinned.

“Alright, madame, shall we say 375, and I will throw in those golems you’re holding for free, eh?” 

“Throw in one of the curse tablets and you have a deal.” Voldemort cut in. 

“Deal.” The goblin said definitively, before jumping down from his chair and hurrying over to the cage before anything else could be added. Bellatrix and Voldemort shared a pleased look over his head as the goblin unlocked the door. The chimera, seemingly happy to get out, did not fight being picked up and was carried back over to the counter.  
“Cash or cheque?”

Back outside, Dolohov was standing across the Roman road, smoking a cigarette and looking through the photographs he’d taken. They had been in the shop for about an hour and Dolohov had already covered the whole site and had taken all the photographs he could have even wanted. He’s also scared a child by making a scary face at it, and it had cried. Overall, a good day. 

He was not expecting to see Bellatrix and Voldemort walk out of the dilapidated building with an animal carrier and several paper bags. He was not expecting them to buy anything, if he was honest with himself. He was fairly certain that the day was going to be a complete waste of time and that Voldemort would get all pissy again and break something. Instead, there were bags, and it actually looked like both of them were in a good mood. 

“A productive shopping trip, I’m guessing?” He eyed up the packages with slight confusion. As he did so, a little flame escaped the travel box. 

“Yes.” Voldemort said simply, deciding not to go into any detail. “And we need to get it back to the house before the muggles see anything.” Bellatrix agreed, and began scanning the area for a suitable place to apperate from. Spotting a deserted side street, she gestured towards it and headed off in that direction. 

Dolohov had not put the camera down during the swift conversation and he made to turn it off before they left. His finger, however, slipped and switched the camera to the first picture that remained on it. It took him a second to realise what was pictured.

“Oh Merlin!” Dolohov suddenly looked terrified, and turned the camera off quickly. Voldemort, who had been watching him and waiting for him to move, raised an eyebrow. The look on Dolohov’s face said it all. 

“I told you.” Voldemort rolled his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that piece of graffiti is real Roman graffiti from Herculaneum. I thought it was funny, but the better graffiti is from Pompeii. The Romans seemed to have a strange obsession with poo, sex and food reviews (jack shit has changed). I'd recommend looking them up. 
> 
> Found it here if you want to have a look : https://kashgar.com.au/blogs/history/the-bawdy-graffiti-of-pompeii-and-herculaneu 
> 
> :)


	9. Chapter Nine

It had taken them a while, but they finally had a plan on how to rescue the rest of the Deatheaters. Was it complicated? Yes. Were there hundreds of ways in which it could go wrong? Also yes. But it was the only way in which all three of them could see a reasonable amount of success coming from it. Distraction and diversion. The basic principal under which they were operating was that they were going to cause as much chaos as possible, wildly and randomly, to zap resources. Unexpected, and seemingly unrelated, incidents would take attention away from guarding Azkaban and leave it open to attack.

“What are the odds they’ll actually notice it’s me, my lord?” Bellatrix asked, lacing up her boots. She and Dolohov were going to take the first step in drawing away the attention. Dolohov had the idea. that, because he knew that the Order would be working with the muggle security services, that they should allow themselves to be seen acting suspiciously on a muggle security camera somewhere random and set them off looking in the wrong place. Voldemort had been impressed with the thought – truth be told he had not considered any of the muggle technology that would be used. He would need a reward, but that would have to come later.

“If you do it exactly how we discussed, Bella, around 75 percent chance it will work. MACUSA and the Ministry are pretty good at sharing their information.” Voldemort said, idly stroking the back of the sleeping chimera. Less fearsome beast, more house-cat: she was a cute, if slightly redundant addition to the group. To be fair to the little thing, she was very young. There would be more time for her to grow into her claws in the future. In an attempt to create some normative determinism, they had named her Orphne, after the nymph of the darkness in Greek mythology.

The ‘extremely advanced’ way in which they had chosen where they were going was still evident on the table. Dolohov had spun an antique globe at a ridiculous speed and Bellatrix had chucked a dart at it. The surface was more brittle than either had expected ; the dart shattered the globe. After picking up the remains, it took them a couple of seconds to decipher where it had actually landed but finally (while Cygnus cried out in anguish at the destruction) they saw that it was on the East coast of the United States. It had actually landed in the middle of nowhere swamp, but that would not do for the plan. The closest large town was a town called Charleston, so that was where they were headed.

“I’m still slightly unsure what I’m supposed to look at.” Bellatrix straightened up, and fixed her hair. She had put on some ugly muggle clothing, just some leggings and a hoodie, but no disguise. Voldemort sighed.

“It’s a box that hangs off roofs and things– look directly at it for a couple of seconds then leave. It’s not difficult.” Orphne’s snake head awoke, hissing, as if to agree with her new master. She wasn’t: she was actually asking -quite politely- for some lunch. Bellatrix didn’t need to know that though. Ignoring the chimera’s request for the moment, Voldemort wondered how any muggle criminal allowed themselves to be caught on the ‘CCTV’ when they were so easy to spot. They may be feeble, weak creatures, but they did have eyes.

“It would help if I had seen one before.” Bellatrix grumbled and fiddled with her earing, which was sticking out of her earlobe (threatening to fall out) after standing back up straight. 

“You have, the muggles have put them everywhere.” Voldemort rolled his eyes.

“I don’t tend to look for muggle things in my everyday life.”

“Keep an eye out for your enemies’ tactics Bella, even if they are beneath you.”

“He, he – beneath who?” Dolohov snickered, walking out of his bedroom. He too had donned a muggle get up – although he had gone slightly more colourful that Bellatrix. Dolohov had made the bold choice to go for a highlighter purple Hawaiian shirt and an ugly pair of knee length khaki shorts. As if to complete the look, he had also gone for the socks with sandals look. Voldemort snorted. Bellatrix shot him a look.

“You have toothpaste in your moustache, dickhead.” Bellatrix sneered. This was true – he had a white line standing in contrast to his brown (greying) facial hair. He shrugged, and said it made him fit in with the muggles better. This comment didn’t seem to get the reaction he wanted so he started trying to lick it off.

“Oh, Merlin, stop!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was terribly hot and humid as Bellatrix apparated. Naples had been a nice temperature, warm but dry with fluffy clouds. Charleston was not like that. It was so humid it was difficult to breathe. Maybe the difference was what made it worse, or maybe Bellatrix was a creature of the cold? She found herself in a back alley, in the old part of town. Rats scuttled, disturbed by her sudden appearance, and hid quickly behind a dumpster. Bellatrix ignored them, striding with false confidence out onto the busy street. Palm trees lined the pavements elegantly, looking beautiful against the white, colonial buildings that this part of the town was filled with. The sky was crystal blue, cloudless and wide. 

Bellatrix wanted to get the plan done and get out of there as fast as possible. She hated this heat, she hated being surrounded by so many muggles and she disliked America in general. She couldn’t quite say hate – the country had some good points – but she would not choose to come there on her own. And, to make matters worse, she had a headache.

She was not enthused by this idea.

Scanning around the street as she walked, Bellatrix could not see a cash machine anywhere. Dolohov had insisted that there would always be one of the ‘security cameras’ around these machines and that it would be a great place to be seen. Stealing money from muggles wasn’t a totally outlandish thing for them to do – Bellatrix had to admit that – so the Order would be unlikely to suspect anything. But, to be seen stealing from a muggle bank, one would have to find a muggle bank, and Bellatrix refused to buy a map. It seemed like she was one the main road – she was sure she’d find one eventually if she kept on walking.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dolohov meanwhile had apparated into the car park of a huge supermarket. He had never actually been in a muggle supermarket before and he was not too certain what it was going to be like. Wizarding shops were never that big. Walking through the automatic doors (something he got a stupid amount of glee from as they parted for him) he was immediately met by a booming voice echoing through the store over the tanoy.

“STAFF MEMBER TO ISLE FOUR. SPILLAGE IN ISLE FOUR.”

The monotonous voice moaned, then as the message ended and the voiceover shut off, the store radio switched back on. The song it returned to was a screechy love song, performed by a singer who had clearly been autotuned and was singing four octaves higher than Dolohov could stomach. He looked up and saw a screen, displaying the recording of the people entering the store. He saw himself, standing out in his horrible shirt. Good. They should see him easily. He smiled, and grabbed a basket.

Right in front of the doors was a huge pick-and-mix station. A child was standing on his tip-toes, hands deep into it, rooting around and munching on strawberry shaped sweets. Dolohov watched the kid’s mother spot what he was doing, scream at him to stop and then grab him by the waist, trying to rip him out of the sweets. She was not expecting the kid to hold on tightly to the plastic tub. Her action just pulled down the whole pick-and-mix. Sweets, plastic and surprised human hit the linoleum floor with a crash.

Laughing, Dolohov went straight to the kitchen appliances isle. Straight to the knives. Most of them were ugly, with ridiculous colours and patterns all over the handles. Exactly the kind of thing Dolohov was looking for. He looked around for a while, trying to find one that would match the shirt he had on or (failing that) the set that would disgust Bellatrix the most. She hated colour, and winding her up was a great past time for him. Settling on a set that was a combination of yellow, blue and orange triangles all over the handles, he left the isle to go find something else. It was a full kitchen set – including a cheese knife – and it was quite heavy and it took more effort to lug it around than Dolohov had fist thought.

His next destination was the guns. Why a shop would sell milk, stationary, garden furniture and firearms all at once, Dolohov would never understand. Did the muggles have so little attention span that they couldn’t go the different shops? He didn’t need a gun. He knew nothing about them. He didn’t want one, but it would be good to raise the alarm bells of the ministry, if he was seen inexplicably buying one. A store assistant came over to him, to ask him what he was looking for no doubt, but Dolohov stopped him.

“Imperio” He hissed, taking control of the employee’s mind. The man’s eyes glossed over and he swayed slightly on the spot. He hoped the camera’s picked up his wand. Breaking the statute of secrecy would be a great way to get them talking. “Bring me a good gun, a big one.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bellatrix had finally found a bank. It had taken her an embarrassingly long time, but it didn’t matter anymore. She was in the line for a cash machine behind a huge man in a dirty tank-top. He smelled disgusting, and Bellatrix had a foul expression of her face as she stood there. Shoving her hands in her hoodie pocket, Bellatrix thumbed around the knife she had there. Her wand was there too, but she wanted the satisfaction of sinking the knife deep into the man’s neck – as punishment for the smell.

Looking around, she spotted the security cameras. There was one above the cash machine and one on the corner of the building. Bellatrix glared directly up into the one above the man’s head and sucked her teeth. It would be a great performance if she was to jump back into the spotlight by just killing a random muggle man. Bellatrix leant back, and peered around the street. There were a few muggles about, plodding about and minding their own business. All of them were quite far away; it would take them a few seconds to reach her if she was to do anything. Not that a muggle would stand a chance against her!

The smelly man was putting his pin into the machine when Bellatrix pulled the knife out of her pocket. It was long, about 20 centimetres, and freakishly sharp. A wicked grin growing on her face, Bellatrix took a step closer – not taking her eyes off the camera for a second. They should know that it for their ‘benefit’ that this was happening.

He didn’t have time to react. The blade cut through his throat like an oar through calm water and, like an oar, it came back to Bellatrix wet. Red with his blood, which was pouring from the gaping wound, the knife dripped droplets onto the hot flagstones below. He crumpled. Falling to his knees and then forward, the man was dead before his head hit the floor. A vast pool of blood spilled out from under him. Bellatrix stepped over him, her trainers being stained, and seized the money that had been spat out by the machine. In a final act of evil, Bellatrix looked up at the other camera, on the edge of the building, and blew it a kiss. Then, grinning Bellatrix turned tail and sprinted in the opposite direction. Muggles had noticed now and were running after her, and Bellatrix had to other reason to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( So fun fact, I am not American, but I have relatives who are. The shop Dolohov went into is just a description of a Walmart near a relative of mine’s house and the last I was there the pick-and-mix incident happened. That Walmart is also one of the ones that still sells guns, so make of that what you will. )
> 
> ALSO : I am going back to college on Monday so updates are going to once a week now. I am doing three essay subjects, so I am going to be very busy lol


	10. Chapter Ten

Voldemort had been waiting for them to get back while also avoiding Cygnus. He, followed by Orphne, had been wandering around the house trying to find a nice spot. It came in the form of a tiny library. Barely bigger than a standard pantry, three of the four walls were covered in books and the other had a desk that was far too large for the room. Orphne had climbed up one of the bookshelves, gotten stuck, and had fallen asleep instead of bothering to get back down again. Sitting in the office chair reading up on curse tablets – the idea had been stuck in his mind since seeing them again – Voldemort heard a stomping in the corridor.

“Took you a while,” Voldemort said flippantly, and Bellatrix popped her head around the door. She had miraculously not been covered in any of the muggles’ blood – it had only gotten on her boots and, as they were a dark colour, the liquid didn’t show up. She’d already untied them, and as she greeted him again, Bellatrix kicked them off into the corridor. A crash could be heard as the boots hit a cabinet of knickknacks.

“Had to make sure I did it right, my lord.” She said. “and now I NEED to get out of this disgusting, foul excuse for clothing.” She moaned, then spent a couple of seconds struggling to get the hoodie off. Her head got stuck and her arms were flailing in the struggle. Voldemort did not help her. He just watched, slightly stunned but mostly amused, as this grown woman getting in a fight with a jumper. As she finally pulled her head out, the jumper took one of her earrings with it and flicked it across the room. Clink – straight into a snow globe. Luckily it was not a casualty.

“Very elegant, Bella.” Voldemort deadpanned.

“What can I say? I’m an aristocrat!” She responded sarcastically. “These clothes are so disgusting; I think I will melt if I wear them any longer.” Gesturing to the shirt she had one, she pulled a face. It was a black, muggle, band t-shirt – some girl group – that was several sizes too big for her. It was very unflattering.

“You’ve said that twice.”

“I have to hammer home the point.” Bellatrix said, “give me a second.” She dashed out of the room, pulling off the ugly t-shirt, balling it up and throwing it with disgust into the hallway after her boots as she did. His eyes followed her out, particularly focusing on the line up her back and the contrast between her skin and the black, lace bra she sported. Voldemort rolled his eyes, but couldn’t keep the affectionate smile off his face.

He heard her door shut, and shuffling as she jumped out of the leggings and began routing around in the wardrobe for something more appropriate. The noise had woke Orphne up again from her snooze. Hissing awake – she asked Voldemort what was going on, sounding a little fearful in her tiny parseltongue voice.

“The human hurricane is being dramatic.” He said, as he heard a loud bang and a litany of swearwords from the next room. It sounded like she’d fallen over. “Are you stuck?” He asked Orphne. She nodded with all three of her heads and Voldemort sighed. He’d always liked animals, particularly serpentine ones. Mammals and birds were far easier controlled than people and they were always loyal. Snakes were clever and well-spoken most of the time, and having a venomous creature around was always useful. 

As he helped Orphne down, he spared a thought for poor Nagini. She was had been a good confidante, and had been strangely philosophical for an animal. The way she spoke reminded him of a Greek philosopher, or a teenager who had just discovered what nihilism meant. He would have to add that Longbottom boy to the list of people to be killed with extreme prejudice for Nagini’s sake. Although, he would have to snatch the kid from Bellatrix; she desperately wanted to finish off the Longbottom line.

Striding out into the corridor, he put Orphne down onto a loveseat so that she could continue to sleep in a safer place. It wouldn’t do for the tiny creature to hurt herself doing something silly – he needed her to grow up fighting fit if she was going to help him take over Britain.

Bellatrix’s door flew back open again and she looked visibly happier. Having donned a dark green, satin dress, the material swished around her ankles as she walked over to him. Bellatrix couldn’t stop grinning. The adrenaline pumping through her veins; the first blood on her hands since the battle; feeling like a human again and her proximity to Voldemort combined together to make her as giddy as a child in a toy shop. Her excitement made her prone to acting more erratically: ordinarily she would not have been the one to make the first move. She would have been too nervous of what his reaction would have been. But, at that point, she didn’t care! Fingers looped around silken robes, gently (but very intently) turning him around to face her.

Her lips were on his before he could react, passionately – hungry. He was surprised, but he wasn’t complaining. He met her passion with equal fervour – his hands in her hair, pushing her up against the wall. His leg between hers, lifting her up slightly so as to be in a better position.

“Well, you’re in a good mood.” He said between kisses. Her response was merely to laugh lightly and nod whilst wrapping one of her legs around him, pulling him in closer to her. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades hard – almost painfully – and he shuddered reflexively. His hands snaked their way up, under the dress and to her hips, swirling his thumbs backwards and forwards on the sensitive skin. Her hips buckled, and she let out a contented sigh.

A bang from the lower level of the house forced them apart, like they’d been struck by lightning. From below, Dolohov announced his return home, loudly and excitedly. Bellatrix looked volcanically angry and she was. Interruption after bloody, mother-fucking interruption.

“They sell so many weapons out in the open.” Dolohov announced to the house, obliviously. The sound of metal being dumped on wood and Cygnus’ enraged screaming at the mess floated up the stairs. Bellatrix growled, adjusting her underwear that had ridden up.

“Later.” Voldemort said quietly, and for a second Bellatrix was confused as to what he meant by it. “We’ll continued this later.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So how do we do this, my lord?” Dolohov asked. They were stood in the darkened courtyard of a convent, many hours after the sun had gone down. Voldemort, Bellatrix and Dolohov were stood around a stone well, like they were warming themselves around a burning bin. Not wanting to waste the day, the rest of the afternoon had been spent attempting to recreate the curse tablet Voldemort had bought in Herculaneum. The exact way that they had originally been made had been lost to time, but using prior knowledge of dark magic it was not too difficult for Voldemort to work it out. The only way that they would know for sure, however, was by testing it.

Voldemort had considered using Dolohov as a test subject but had ultimately decided against it. Despite how annoyed he had been with him and his interruption, Voldemort was not annoyed enough to screw over the little bit of progress they had already made. There was no way of knowing how it would hurt him, or if he would have a severely bad reaction to it, and he could not lose another person to an experiment. He did not mention the idea of using a test subject to Bellatrix, because he knew that she would offer to do it herself. While he appreciated the dedication, he did not want her to do that.

“If what I have read is correct,” Voldemort said, looking down at the tablet in his hand, “they should be thrown into the well, and, while they’re falling, the chant should be repeated three times.” Simple enough. Voldemort was worried that it was a little too simple, and he was a little worried that he had read it wrong. He did not want to deal with another failure.

They had each chosen somebody in the order to curse, or at least test the curse on. Bellatrix had chosen the Longbottom boy – because of course she had. Voldemort did not expect her to choose anyone else. Her hatred for that family was legendary. It was punching down for her, but as a test subject Voldemort couldn’t complain.

Dolohov meanwhile had chosen Dedalus Diggle. There was a complicated history between the two wizards: Voldemort knew that tensions went deep. Diggle had once had a brother who had been estranged from the family when he became a black-market arms and animal dealer fresh out of Hogwarts. This brother (Lapyx Diggle) and Dolohov had met in the mid-sixties in Leningrad and had hit it off very quickly. They had been good friends then business partners. There were rumours that they had been something more than that but Dolohov had never confirmed or denied that claim, and Voldemort did not care enough to ask. In 1969, they had come to Britain together, intending to work in Nocturn Alley. Things between them had dissolved when Dolohov had become a Deatheater and Lapyx had been persuaded back to his family by Dedalus. The bad blood had been there since then, and had only gotten worse when a Deatheater killed Lapyx. It had actually been Travers but Dedalus had immediately blamed Dolohov and had joined the Order because of it. Dolohov jumped on the chance to bring a little more misery to the ‘meddling little prick’, as he called him. 

Voldemort had considered cursing Potter on his tablet – he had gone as far as to begin carving it when he changed his mind. They’d know. If something strange and mysterious happened to the-boy-who-refused-to-fucking-die, they’d know it was him. Perhaps that would set them off searching for what it could be? No. That would not do. And, besides, he wanted to kill Potter in person. Instead, he went for someone close to Potter, who’s pain would hurt him. Ronald Weasley. Blood-traitor scum, like all Weasleys were.

Everything was prepared. The most imaginative tortures each could think of had been painstaking carved into the lead, then the lead had been forcibly folded and nailed closed. He had made Bellatrix and Dolohov rehearse the chant over and over in the kitchen, until he was utterly convinced that they knew all the words. Neither had been impressed. Dolohov had hidden it better than Bellatrix, who had stood with her arms crossed and jaw clenched as she repeated it.

“On the count of three, drop your tablet and say the line.” Voldemort instructed. All three of them reached their hands out over the dark void of the well. Any of the sisters looking out into the warm Neapolitan night would have thought some devil worshippers had commandeered their courtyard. They would have been right, in a way.

A sudden, and unwelcome memory hit Voldemort in the cerebellum, and he was taken back to the one time he’d been taken to see a play as a child. Macbeth – and its ridiculous depictions of witches – had stuck with him. ‘When shall we three meets again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?’ He thought – looking from the candlelight reflected in Dolohov’s eyes to the shadows dancing off Bellatrix’s angular features. She looked like a demon and it was beautiful.

“1. 2. 3.” He counted down, wearing a light smile. The tablets fell silently, and the chant began.

“Vae vobis, qui te oderunt. Haec verba mea ad animam meam. Vestra frui morbo” The three of them said in time, like a horrifying song. They finished speaking, just as the splash of the tablets hitting the water hard echoed up. There was no visible change, no light, no sound, no unexpected wind. But Voldemort could feel it. Looking into Bellatrix’s eyes, he knew she felt it too. A tidal wave of magic flowed from the well, washing over them and escaping into the night.

“I hope they enjoy their little gifts.” Bellatrix said, grinning in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lets just pretend that Nagini isn’t a person – ok : ) 
> 
> COLLEGE IS KICKING MY FUCKING ASS AND I’VE ONLY DONE THREE DAYS. Seriously. We've only done three days of online learning and I'm drained. First day back in properly tomorrow and I'm not looking forward to the virus infected bus.


	11. Chapter Eleven

The ancient Greeks’ Goddess of the Dawn was called Eos. Many poets of the time described beautiful sunrises as Eos’ rosy fingers stretching out across the grey sky. An apt description, Voldemort thought, watching the new day rise through the window. It was very quiet for once. Rustling leaves from the lemon tree in the courtyard, the far away scream of a nearby owl (that should have been going to bed itself) and the occasional beep from muggle cars. Very pleasant indeed.

Warm, wrapped in a cocoon of silk and wool, he was sat up against the headboard watching the light slowly glow, higher and higher up as the sun rose, though the white curtains. The window behind the curtain was open, and the white cotton slowly wafted in the wind. Shadows from the tree outside fell across the wooden floor like the ripples on a pond.

Cuddled up to his side, fast asleep, was Bellatrix. Lying at an angle that looked mildly uncomfortable to Voldemort, she had her right arm extended out over his chest. His hand rested on her wrist, and the other arm held her close to him. She was warm, apart from her feet which felt frozen solid when they brushed against his. Both of them were completely naked apart from the blankets.

Voldemort’s eyes fell from the window to her. Her skin was luminescent in the pink light of the dawn. Black curls, tousled and static, cascaded from her head and obscured most of her face from him. A closed eye and an elegant nose were all that could really be seen. Still, she looked strangely peaceful. Almost innocent looking, Bellatrix looked like a different woman than she did when she was awake.

When they’d met, he’d noticed her beauty but it had not been what had struck him the most about her. It was that vicious spirit. Her proclivity to violence. He’d heard of this before even meeting her: Bellatrix Black’s reputation had preceded her.

The Eighteenth of September 1970 – a miserable, wet day. Voldemort was in Malfoy Manor, having just finished a meeting with Abraxas Malfoy. It had gone very well, and the Malfoy patriarch had pledged a substantial amount of money to the cause. Malfoy had been forced to rush off due to an incident at the ministry and Voldemort had assured him that he would show himself out. He was planning on it – after he’d snooped around the house for a bit. Disappointed, Voldemort had not found anything all that interesting lying around Malfoy Manor. It seemed as though they’d locked anything of significance away.

He was one his way out when he heard some women’s voices from down a hallway. The falling dust in the hallway wafted as he snuck through the house towards the sound. Silently, he stopped near a parlour door, curious as to what the ladies within were discussing. At the time Lord Voldemort had felt a little ridiculous, like a child, listening at doorways, but he did not leave. Instead, he overheard Duella Black and Ursula Malfoy talking in hushed tonnes about an incident that had occurred the week before.

“I can’t explain why she did it!” Duella had sobbed exasperatedly. Her hands were shaking, whether in fear or fury Voldemort had been unable to tell. The tremors reverberated into her teacup, and the china clicked.

“I can.” Ursula had said darkly, her tone unimpressed. “She’s a sociopath!”

“Don’t call my daughter that!”

“My dear, I don’t make the comment to be rude. I don’t believe it’s down to your parenting, Narcissa is a wonderful girl, and Andromeda is very charming. Bellatrix is just a…” Ursula paused, momentarily, to think of the politest word. “bedlamite.”

His attention had been grabbed by this statement. He had heard of a ‘Bellatrix’ before, in passing. Abraxas’ son had told a story of a girl getting into a fight with a boy in school, and sending him to St Mungo’s in a coma. Jezabelle Rosier had complained about a ‘Bellatrix’ accidentally tripping her daughter down the staircase after an argument at Hogwarts. Jezabelle was convinced that it was not an accident. He’d heard Orion Black speaking proudly of his niece going on a muggle hunting trip with him. He had also heard that the eldest daughter of Cygnus and Duella Black was to marry Rodolphus Le-Strange – a man whom had just started working for him. He had assumed that these were all the same person.

“She isn’t crazy!” Duella insisted, “there is probably an explanation I haven’t heard yet.”

“It doesn’t matter really what explanation she has, there is no need to kill other people’s house elves. There is no real reason to kill your own house elves, truth be told, but especially someone else’s.”

“They were rude…” Duella tried to counter, miserably. She knew what she was saying was just wrong.

“She was reckless Duella! The killing curse is an immediate Azkaban sentence. If the Rowles wanted to press charges for that loss of property, she would immediately lose everything. Over some house elves!” Voldemort could hear to the eye roll in Ursula’s voice. She was of course right – based on the minimal information he had just heard. It was the definition of recklessness, to randomly murder other people’s properly. However, it was intriguing to hear of a violent young person. There was always room in his ranks for a willing soldier.

“I just hope Rodolphus can straighten her out.” Duella had sighed, and confirmed to Voldemort that this was the same girl.

“I have my doubts darling. No man will control that girl.” Ursula had sipped on her tea, definitively, as if that was the end of the conversation.

Voldemort was more likely to trust Ursula’s opinion than Duella Black’s; he’d been at Hogwarts with the Malfoy Matriarch (although she had been an Abbott at the time) and she’d been a decent sort. Voldemort didn’t know Duella well – she’d left school when he was in second year and why would a seventh-year pureblood princess have spoken to a random, first year ‘mudblood’? 

Lying in bed with her, Voldemort was glad that he had overheard that conversation. Had he not, Voldemort wasn’t sure that he would have taken Bellatrix as seriously when he met her in person. Bellatrix had been forced into a pink bridesmaid dress the day they’d met; she did not look intimidating, violent, or even all that interesting. Without the knowledge that she was a cold-blooded elf killer, muggle hunter, revenge seeking witch, he would not have bothered to speak to her. She sniffed in her sleep and snuggled closer into him. He was very glad he’d taken the time to speak to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is a short one – sorry 😊 but I wanted to put a little scene in between them)


	12. Chapter Twelve

Voldemort sculked down Diagon Alley. He had decided to get up early and get the Daily Prophet himself – wanting to be the first to see whether their actions had incurred a response. It was quieter than usual. People hid in their homes and shops, curtains twitching to see who was walking up the street. Disguised expertly, there was no danger that he would be recognised. Let them be scared, Voldemort smirked. 

The stand that he’d the newspaper was the only open shop. The girl staffing it looked like she was about to be sick every time someone walked past. Bags under her eyes suggested that she’d not been sleeping. She probably had a knife with her. Twitchy and pale, she looked prepared to slash at anyone who came at her, but she didn’t look like she would know what she was doing. She wouldn’t have lasted three seconds in a fight. It was very unempathetic of her boss to leave her out there on her own. 

“Daily Prophet.” He said gruffly, making her jump. 

“It’s a horrible read today,” The girl said, shakily, handing the paper over the stand to him. He didn’t respond, just eyed up the front page. Fair to say, they plan had worked – they had one hundred percent been spotted. “I just hope they don’t come to Diagon Alley while I’m working.” The girl tried to joke but instead just sort of squeaked weakly. 

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Voldemort faked a supportive smile, paid and left. 

“…Bella?” He shouted as he re-entered the Naples house. She was sitting on the carpet in front of Cygnus’ painting, playing with Orphne. If he hadn’t been able to have full conversations with the snake head, Voldemort would have thought that it was just a cat with fake heads sewn on. Bellatrix was using her wand as a laser-pointer, and the chimera was chasing the little light around, pouncing on it when it stayed still for a second. She and Cygnus were just having a pleasant conversation at the same time, just chatting about the pets they’d had when Bellatrix was a child. Hearing him come in, Bellatrix turned around and smiled at Voldemort. 

“You want to explain this?” Voldemort asked, holding up the newspaper. On the frontpage was a still image of a viciously evil Bellatrix mid-throat slit in front of a cash machine. Black curls swirled around her head like a dark halo, eyes bright and wicked. She looked like a wicked fairy from the muggle books he’d read as a child. The man had a horrified look on his face, and blood pouring down his front. ‘FUGITIVE SPOTTED’ was the headline sitting above her. 

Bellatrix looked amused.

“I’m disappointed it got such a boring headline, my lord.” She said innocently. 

“Why did you not mention it when you got back?” Voldemort asked, confused with this ridiculous woman. He was not annoyed that she’d changed the plan in the field, can’t be annoyed when it worked so well, but he was very surprised she hadn’t gloated about the murder when she got back. 

“I just forgot to be honest – I had other things on my mind.” She shrugged, and smiled flirtatiously, just subtly enough that Cygnus did not notice. Voldemort did, and fought off the urge to go and kiss her right then.

“Horror stuck yesterday, in the American city of Charleston, South Carolina. The Deatheater Bellatrix Le-Strange was spotted for the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts two weeks ago.” Voldemort stat down on the couch casually, reading aloud the article with mock seriousness. Bellatrix leant her arm and head on the fluffy ottoman, looking up at him as he read. “In a savage attack on an unsuspecting muggle – Tom Grateman (54) – the dark witch made direct eye contact with the muggle security cameras in the area, even stooping to taunting the camera with a mocking kiss.” He laughed, “Nice touch by the way.” Bellatrix preened with the praise, and the chimera pounced on her knees, demanding her attention once more. Bellatrix gave her what she wanted, transfiguring a quill that rested on the coffee table into a toy for the excitable chimera. Voldemort continued. 

“The Department of magical law enforcement want to reassure the public that all sightings of Deatheaters within the last week has been in the United States. However, they do urge caution. Do not leave your homes at night if you can help it. Do not talk to strangers. Do not accept anything from strangers. Report anyone you know whom is acting strangely to the Department of Law Enforcement. Should you encounter any of the Deatheater yet to be captured – Bellatrix Le-Strange and Antonin Dolohov – do not engage. Report the sighting to the Department and try to escape undetected.”

“I wonder what their advice is should then encounter you my lord?” Bellatrix said, smirking. 

“Make peace with death, I suppose.”

There was then a humming which floated down the staircase from the floor above, interrupting the conversation. Apparently, Dolohov was up. He was humming a particularly annoying song that had been on the radio constantly over the past few months. Bellatrix groaned – she’d only just got the song out of her head. Now it was never going to go away. 

There was nothing more irritating to Voldemort than that man’s cheerfulness. Have a little self-respect! It was eight in the morning! Sure, Voldemort awoke early to make sure he could fit as much into the day as possible, but he didn’t enjoy it! There was a reason that he was such an unpleasant asshole most of the time. 

“Come down here Dolohov.” Voldemort had ordered.

“Oh, do you have the paper, my lord?” Dolohov shouted down over the banisters. Voldemort responded that he had, and told him (again) to come down. He did, loudly and not very carefully. Because of this, coupled with the steep, well-polished wood of the stairs and wool socks, Dolohov slipped. He screamed like a little girl, and fell down the stairs right on his spine and then landed in a heap and the bottom. He groaned and just lay flat on the wood floor, unable to move for the moment. 

“For fuck’s sake.” Voldemort rolled his eyes and shook his head. 

“Morning Dolohov.” Bellatrix said, not looking at him – instead scratching Orphne’s lion head affectionately, and getting a deep purr as a thank you. “Are you dead?”

“No, ow.” He sat up, and rubbed the back of his head where he’d hit it on the bottom step. He was still in his pyjamas – it looked as though he was on his way to brush his teeth when he was summoned. 

“If there is a dent in the wood, make him pay to fix it Bellatrix.” Cygnus insisted from within the painting. Bellatrix nodded but didn’t respond vocally.

“Well, Dolohov I was going to commend you for your plan working, but it seems like you actually need a lesson on how to properly use a staircase.” Voldemort said sardonically, peering at him from over the top of the paper. Dolohov apologised for making a scene and sat down, red faced, on the couch. “As I was saying, before you made such a grand entrance,” Voldemort said, “They have noticed the two of you in the States, mostly Bellatrix but you are mentioned at the end. However, there is also an article on the next page that also applies to us.”

It did indeed. Following a photograph – a wizarding, moving photograph this time – of someone, covering in a sheet being loaded onto a healer’s stretcher was the headline ‘TRAGEDY YET UNEXPLAINED’. It was a short article, probably because a lot of the information surrounding the case would have been highly confidential to the Order. Yet, there was enough information there. The short version was that three members of the Order had turned up terribly unwell. One was dead and the other two were in a critical condition in St Mungo’s. Daedalus Diggle was found dead at his home the day before, seemingly having been turned inside out. There was no sign of a break in, nor had anyone apparated into, or out of his home aside from him in days. Ronald Weasley had been taken to hospital because his lungs turned into livers and healers were stumped as to how that happened. Neville Longbottom, meanwhile, was apparently hallucinating being attacked by dark demons, and in his fear, he had ripped part of his own face off. The curses had worked! 

Whilst dramatically reading out the well-wishes the paper sent to the three men, Voldemort could not help but feel triumphant. Things were finally looking up again. It had been four weeks exactly since the battle, since he’d lost everything and he had already made the next step forward to regaining his power. Compared to the last time, twelve years until he’d made any real progress, then another eighteen months until he had a damn body again, he was doing pretty well. They would be back to the top in no time. 

Bellatrix looked delighted as he’d read the description of the tortures the cursed inflicted. There was a glint in her eyes that lit her face beautifully. Brown eyes wide and excited she was hanging on his every word. Dolohov, on the other hand, was sat back on the couch and beaming with pride. They were ready. It was time. 

“So, let us begin part two of the plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol so it seems as though we had lots of stuff to do on the first week of term, then less afterwards. So, yeah. Updates are going to be more than once a week.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evil doing montage time >:)

It was weeks of work before even the slightest of pauses. Every day there was another plan, another mission, another fight. It was hard work. It was important that nothing they did could be connected to them directly, but it should be easy to speculate about. Rumours should spread. By setting off strange things around Britain, and forcing the ministry to react, they were killing two birds with one stone. The people were scared. The ministry was stretched. Azkaban would be understaffed.

Voldemort was pleased with their progress. Over those weeks, the three of them came and went. Bellatrix and Dolohov appeared and left as Voldemort called upon them, doing his bidding and occasionally reporting back. Each was out causing madness and chaos and were left to their own devises for the most part.

The first thing they did was to release a number of golems. Bellatrix had made an army of the little devils. After drafting in Dolohov as a second pair of hands (Voldemort did not like clay and had refused to participate, leaving Dolohov as the only option) she had commandeered the entire kitchen as her creative studio. Clay was smeared all over all the marble counter tops, several bottles of wine had been drunk between them, there was a crackle of magic in the air as the golems were charmed into life. She’d had a lot of fun with it. Each one was different. Dolohov had carved simplistic, smiling faces into the golems he had made, whilst Bellatrix had gone for a more ‘jack-o’-lantern’ look for hers.

“Yours look too nice!” Bellatrix had said, pointing at the cute grins covering Dolohov’s brood.

“It’s ironic Le-Strange!” He’d exclaimed, defensive of his creations. “Its funny, people getting the shit beat out of them by something that won’t stop smiling.”

“They’d look better with fangs.” She’d insisted.

The next morning, the creatures had been released. Before the grey dawn light had lifted from the luscious countryside, Bellatrix had stashed hundreds of golems around Hogsmeade town. Meanwhile, Dolohov did the same thing, except in a large ring around it. There would be no escape.

“Ready?” Dolohov had called out to her, in a hushed voice, as Bellatrix met back up with him – empty handed where she’d left with her arms filled. He was hiding behind a bush, which looked out over the town from a little up the hill. Bellatrix joined him, looking with glee out over the postcard scene below. Pointed, triangular roofs, twirling chimneys clear from the smoke that always clung to them in winter, but in the early summer was unneeded, houses dusted in wildflowers like icing sugar on cakes. Hogsmeade was angelic – a perfect representation of the Scottish countryside. Bellatrix could not wait to see it ripped apart.

“Let’s do it.” She’d grinned.

Three seconds. It took three seconds exactly after the golems awoke, for all hell to break loose.

Roars of the golems scared the birds, just as they awoke, and set them off screaming into the air like plumes of smoke. Their cries were soon joined by the screams of people as the golems set to ripping the village apart. Glass shattered, as they threw things through windows. Doors were ripped off their hinges forcibly. Bricks were wrenched from the corners of buildings, mortar and all. There was an almighty crash, as one of the golems had managed to dislodge a particularly unsafe wall, and the whole side of a cottage fell down. Despite how far away it was, Bellatrix and Dolohov were clearly able to see that one of the revealed rooms was a bathroom, and someone was in the bath. They were cackling as they disaperated, just as the fires began.

“Come on Bellatrix, put your back into it!” Voldemort said, languishing on a dead log in the middle of the woods. It was weeks and hundreds of schemes later and he was ordering the two of them around, watching them flail around desperately trying not to look ridiculous. They were failing.

“I’m trying!” She yelled, yanking several Red Caps off of her legs before they could bite down any deeper. She swore, kicked at them, and smashed the one in her hand violently into a stone. It was dead after the seventh swing. Its green blood splattered everywhere.

The tiny goblinesque creatures were horrible little buggars; a malevolent, murderous creature found along the Scottish/English border. Their favourite pass time was to rip people’s faces off, like chimps. Obviously, this meant that they were the perfect creatures to smuggle into the Ministry of Magic itself and watch the chaos from the shadows. That however, required them to catch some of them; a task far more troublesome than had been expected.

After setting off a smoke charm in their set (the hole had been stolen from a family of badgers then expanded for their use), the creatures exploded out of the hole like a tidal wave. There were so many more than Bellatrix had thought there would be. There were hundreds. Dolohov had conjured a shield, which the creatures hit and poured around it like water hitting the back of a spoon. Bellatrix had not thought of that and was quickly overrun.

A huge, grey, bubble floated ominously over Bellatrix and Dolohov – filled like a sweet jar with angry Red Caps scrabbling at the sides. They were grabbing any they could catch, and levitating them into the bubble for later.

“Bella try not to kill the merchandise!” Voldemort said, amused at her reaction.

“Well,” Bellatrix, said panting – levitating five of them at once up into the bubble. There was green blood all over her face. “We would appreciate your help, my lord.” Dolohov nodded in agreement, ducking under a jumping Red Cap attack.

“No, I think I’d rather just watch.”

“Not tempted by how fun this looks?” She said, drop kicking one particularly ugly one back down the hole. It barrelled back out again, aiming straight for her neck. Reflexes sharp, she managed to back hand the creature straight into the bubble. Bellatrix was kind of impressed with herself, if she was honest. Voldemort laughed, saying that he wouldn’t take away any of the sport from her, if she was enjoying it so much. She rolled her eyes, which turned into a grimace as the little shits pulled her legs out from under her. Landing on her elbows, scraping all the skin off of them, Bellatrix protected her head from hitting the floor.

“You alright, Le-Strange?” Dolohov asked, rounding up a gaggle of them and putting them into the bubble.

“Yes.” She growled.

It was not difficult to get the creatures into the ministry. It was ridiculously easy- in fact. The toilet entrance into the ministry was quiet in the middle of the day – it was only over flowing with people during rush hours in the morning and evening. It being two o’clock; it was not busy.

The WC was disgusting. Bellatrix was not sure why – it wasn’t even a real toilet why would it smell like piss? There was crude graffiti scrawled over everything, black mould was growing in the grout between the tiles, as they were constantly wet and covered in urine. These tiles went only two-thirds up the wall, the rest of being covered in yellowing, peeling, floral wallpaper. Bellatrix wondered whether it was yellow from tobacco smoke, or from bodily fluids. The floor was sticky linoleum, that squelched as they walked on it.

The bubble floated in after them, full the brim with scrabbling creatures, and almost got stuck in the doorframe. Snarling, thrashing, screeching, Red Caps tried to fight their way out. It was no use. There was no getting out of there on their own.

Two at a time, Dolohov, Bellatrix and Voldemort grabbed some Red Caps, seizing them by the back of the neck (to avoid the teeth). Thrashing like dog refusing to take some medicine, they held them out from them for a few seconds, to make sure that they were as angry as possible. They then threw them into the toilet bowls, and flushed them quickly. Twenty to thirty trips later, all of the Red Caps were gone, deep into the bowels of the ministry. There was a beat of silence, as they listened. Shattered quickly. Screams floated up the pipes, mixed with cackles and growls from the Red Caps, as they got to work.

The papers would later describe a scene of carnage: blood smeared on all the polished floors, body parts in the fountain, a whole torn-off face (ripped like a Halloween mask) stuck to the ‘Magic is Might’ statue that had not yet been removed. The ministry had declared it a major incident, but it took them several days to realise from which entrance the Red Caps had come from.

“Do you think this attack has anything to do with the Deatheaters still at large?” A reporter had asked at the press conference. It was the question on everyone’s minds. Sitting at a long, wooden table, was the minister for magic – Kingsley Shacklebolt – as well as the head of Magical Law Enforcement and the head of the Auror Division. Harry Potter was there too, looking deeply uncomfortable in the flashing lights of the camera.

“We cannot confirm nor deny.” Shacklebolt had sighed, leaning with his elbows on the table. “However, it is a definite possibility. We must however not be completely tunnel visioned about this; there is also a possibility that this could have been caused by an unrelated group, or a prank gone wrong.”

Voldemort had found this hilarious, reading the article the next morning. He knew that Shacklebolt knew it was unlikely to be anyone else but them. Being a politician now, Shacklebolt had to be more careful with his words than usual.

“If anyone has any information about this, please contact the ministry.” Potter had said, sounding like an afterthought. He looked like a puppet, spouting what they wanted him to say.

“Do you reckon the ministry has a hand up his ass controlling him, or do you think they’ve gone for some more tasteful strings?” Bellatrix said, apparently having thought the same thing. They were sat at the breakfast table looking over all the articles written about them. Dolohov had come up with the idea to take clippings of the articles and put them together in a scrapbook. Voldemort had made a snide comment saying that it wasn’t a _‘my first baby’_ album for Dolohov to play with, but still allowed him to make it. It was actually quite useful to have everything in one place, but Voldemort would not admit that. Dolohov did not deserve the ego boost.

“Strings,” Voldemort said, “just because they don’t like to get their hands dirty.”

Bellatrix nodded, stabbing her eggs with a look of disgust on her face. She had wanted them so badly thirty minutes ago, while she was making them, but she had completely lost her appetite. It was the smell of them, it was so very…EGG. She didn’t want her coffee either, after pouring it, and swirled it around in the mug and watched the beverage swirl like a whirlpool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm so fucking sad because my area is getting put back into lockdown on Tuesday. Nooooooo.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Bellatrix started awake, hyperventilating. The blankets clutched in her fingers, she tried to shake the terrible feeling of paranoia that was encroaching on her soul. She was safe. No dementors, no sea, no cold. Just a bedroom. There was nobody waiting to get her behind the curtains. Nobody was under the bed with a knife. She was alone. She was…alone.

It had been Bellatrix’s choice, in the daylight hours, to have a bedroom to herself. She had not particularly wanted to, but she was sure that she had food poisoning. This bedroom was closer to the toilet, and Voldemort didn’t want to be woken up every time her stomach troubled her. She still felt queasy, like her insides were being swirled around with a whisk. Her hands rested on her lower abdomen, in an attempt to get the feeling to go away. It didn’t, but it also didn’t seem like she was going to be sick at that moment. It was a brick in her lower abdomen – not moving, not out but also not away.

Sitting up in the dark – the air conditioning just too cold for comfort, causing goosebumps on her skin – all thought for her illness was gone. Bellatrix could not be alone tonight. Grabbing her bedside knife, she jumped out of bed.

It was the fish. It had to be! Bellatrix knew she should have just ordered a bloody pizza and then this would not have happened. The three of them had gone to Capri for a celebratory dinner a few days before and had a lovely time. Still, she’d been feeling ill since. Actually, she’d been feeling a little weird for most of the week, but the actual physical symptoms had started after the meal – so it had to be that.

Sock covered feet padded silently down deserted corridors. Downstairs, the click clack of Orphne’s claws on wood was the only sound. That and the ticking of a Grandfather clock. Click. Clack. Tick. Tock. Orphne was pottered about, why Bellatrix could not say (that cat had a mind of her own), in the dark. She didn’t like it. It was eerie. She held the knife out in front of her, willing and very able to stab anything that jumped out at her in the darkness. Hurrying down the corridor, from the nearest room, Bellatrix could hear Dolohov snoring. He sounded like he had a collapsed lung and had been smoking forty a day. She slipped past the door without checking on him. If he died in his sleep, they’d find him in the morning. She didn’t meet anyone before getting to the door she wanted.

Momentarily, she considered whether or not she should knock. She decided not to, instead just opening the door and slipping in. It was very dark – he’d drawn the curtains tightly – so dark it was difficult for Bellatrix to see where the furniture was. She moved slowly, not wanting to smack into anything. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Bellatrix saw the outline of him, sleeping on his side, on the far side of the bed. Very gently, she placed the knife down on the side table and climbed up onto the bed. As the bed moved, he grunted slightly, waking up.

“Hello.” He said, voice gravelly from sleep. She slipped under the covers next to him and pressed her cheek to his back, wrapping her arms around him at the same time.

“I’m cold.” She said, muffled, into his shoulder.

“It’s July and we’re in Italy.”

“Ssshh.” Bellatrix shushed him with a smile. He shook his head affectionately. Falling into a comfortable silence, Voldemort took one of her hands off his chest and held it in his. His hands were much bigger than hers, and enveloped her hand completely. Fingers entwined; he pressed the two back to his chest. Bellatrix could feel the beat of his heart.

“Did you have another nightmare?” He asked after a couple of seconds.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Fair enough.” He said, breathing slowly and calmly (both because he was tired and because he thought it might help to calm her down). Coupled with the beat of his heart, it did make her feel better. Her nightmare was forgotten – Bellatrix could barely remember what it had been about. Azkaban, but any more detailed than that and she would have come up stumped. She moved slowly, as if asking his permission to get closer, and her legs entangled with his under the blankets. He could feel her heart rate slow, steadily during the minutes they lay silently.

“If you’re sick on me I’m locking you in the bathroom.” He said jokily, but she knew it was a serious threat. 

“Ok.” She laughed. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.” She was telling the truth. Even though her intestines felt like they were in a blender and her boobs hurt, she was not going to be sick. She might cry, but she wasn’t going to be sick.

“It’d better not,” she could hear the smile in his voice. “It must have been some pretty terrible fish to fuck you up this badly.”

“I don’t know how. It was really good at the time.” It had been baked seabass – drenched in butter and lemon- and it was delicious. Bellatrix had particularly liked the fact they the eyes had not been removed before it had been cooked, and that she had been able to stab it with her fork and wave it in Dolohov’s face. She had expected the eye to explode when she stuck her fork in, but it did not. Instead, there was a weird crunch, that sent a shiver down her spine. Dolohov had retched, so it was worth it.

“Is it cinnamon or ginger that settles the stomach? I can never remember.”

“You can use either. I prefer ginger, but Cissa downed a ocean's worth of cinnamon tea when she was pregnant with Draco, so it must work.”

“Does cinnamon make you stupid then?” Bellatrix was unsure whether he was he was calling Narcissa or Draco stupid. She didn’t really agree with either, but she was too tired to argue.

“Maybe, not heard of that as a side effect before, but…” She stopped speaking to yawn and pressed her forehead to his back. She could feel the curve of his spine through the skin, the bumps of his spine showing through the skin between his shoulder blades.

“Have some ginger tea in the morning.” Voldemort said, quietly, relaxing and pressing his head into the pillow again. “Sleep now. ‘s big day tomorrow.”

“’can’t wait.” Bellatrix murmured. They didn’t speak again. Instead, both fell asleep quickly wrapped up in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter one I know - but its the calm before the storm lol


	15. Chapter Fifteen

The day was here. Two months since the battle that took everything, Bellatrix was a little embarrassed that it had taken them so long. But that didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was that they were on their way.

Preparing beforehand, in the golden sunrise falling like birthday streamers through the windows, Bellatrix laced up her battle corset. She was not all that pleased with it – it felt kind of small around her breasts, and it was making them sore. Well, slightly sorer than they were before. Scrubbed and polished – all the metal fastenings on the corset shone in the early morning light – she breathed in deeply. The smell of the bacon cooking on the stove was not helping her nausea, and she’d been sure to tell Dolohov that it smelt disgusting in no uncertain terms. She’d already had several cups of ginger tea, and it had not helped. This was a powerful fucking food poisoning!

Normally, she would wear the dress she had worn during the Battle of Hogwarts but she didn’t think it would have been an appropriate thing to wear around Azkaban. The weather was just not right for it, and she was worried about tripping on the skirts as they were blown around her in the wind. So, she’d chosen to switch it up, and had gone for trousers instead. She could not go without the corset though: it was her armour. She would not feel safe in battle without it. 

“Everything ready?” Voldemort asked, walking in. He was also in his robes from the last battle, cleaned and with the holes fixed. He looked particularly sinister. 

“Once breakfast is ready, my lord.” Dolohov said with a polite bow as his entered, turning back to the stove, flipping the bacon like a pancake. 

“Good.” He nodded, and took a deep breath. Preparing himself Bellatrix supposed. Bellatrix’s ashen face caught his attention, and he turned to face her. Tilting his head slightly, he surveyed her with a look of mild concern. “Are you alright, Bella?”

“Yes, still just feeling a little sick. It should pass soon.” She waved away his worry with a casual hand but she did not look good. From the stove, Dolohov furrowed his eyebrows – cogs whirring in his head. He finished with the bacon, flicking it with the spatula onto a sliced barm cake. Passing the butty to the Dark Lord, who did not thank him, Dolohov threw the kitchen towel over his shoulder.   
“How long have you been feeling sick Le-Strange?” He asked, crossing his arms. 

“Most of the week.” She shrugged, sipping on the fourth mug of ginger tea she’d had this morning. “It is food poisoning I think.”

“Any other symptoms?”

“um…tiredness, soreness, I guess.” She said, uninterested in the conversation. Instead of paying attention to the point Dolohov was leading her to, she reached her hand into the fruit bowl and searched around for something that would catch her eye. She settled on some apricots. 

“…right. Ok.” Dolohov looked like he had come to a realisation. He turned his head, looking her up and down like he was seeing something in her for the first time. Eyebrows furrowed, he asked, “Are you sure you’re in a fit state to fight?”

“Yes! Of course! Why?” Bellatrix looked at him, disgusted at the suggestion that she might not be healthy enough for war. Voldemort looked up at him too, quirked eyebrow in a very ‘pray tell’ look that scared Dolohov a little bit. 

“No reason.” He shook his head, quickly, and put another piece of bacon on the stove for himself. The tension in the room from his suggestion diffused slightly, as the sizzle of the bacon was the only sound. Sneaking a look upward, he then looked to the Dark Lord, then back again to Bellatrix. They didn’t look any different than usual to Dolohov; the Dark Lord was as terrifying as normal and Bellatrix looked mildly psychotic, biting each of the apricots in half, then pulling the stone out of them with her teeth. Dolohov sighed, said ‘wow’ under his breath, then just continued to cook. 

The castle was an apperation free zone. This was one of the complications of the rescue. Rolling waves threw the tiny, commandeered fishing boat they had taken for the job around like a pinball. The waves were not violent, it was decent weather today after all of Bellatrix is worrying, but that did not mean that they were kind to the little boat. Rocking, forwards, backwards, side to side, Bellatrix was clinging with knuckles white against the rails of the boat. Her hair whipped about her head in the wind, the salt she hated so much getting into it once more. Magic guided the boat towards its destination, but Voldemort stood at the wheel, just in case it went wrong. Dolohov slept, his sea legs better than the others. 

Azkaban was weirdly beautiful in the morning light. Bellatrix was surprised: she had never seen it from the outside in the daylight before. Natural, grey stone made the fortress look like it was always supposed to be there; as if the sea had spat it out, a volcanic island or a monster. The sea swirled, tips of the waves white and foamy in the wind, around the base of the island. Turquoise, navy, black and green, the sunrise brought out all of the colours of the sea. The dark shadow cast by the sheer sides of the fortress sliced across the sea, the same darkness that swirled around the top of the top. Dementors swarmed the keep. Flies on a dead carcass, there were so many of them that the top of the castle was completely obscured. 

The three of them had landed on the island at the base of the castle, just outside the walls at the bottom. They were less than ten feet from the island’s graveyard. Barty’s mother was on the other side of the wall, Bellatrix knew. How many other the others had joined her? 

“So,” Voldemort said, quietly, “I’ll distract the dementors, you two go in. Bella take the left wing; Dolohov take the right.” He instructed. Bellatrix nodded vehemently, and Dolohov pulled his wand from the holder on his belt. “Get anyone who can walk, if they can’t walk, get someone else to carry them. If you can do neither, leave them.” Bellatrix found herself imagining what she would have felt if she’d been left because she’d been too weak to walk. She had been, when they’d come for her. She had been too weak to keep her head up, let alone walk. The Dark Lord had still ordered her safe return, and Lucius had been the one to grab her. It was embarrassing to think that such an incompetent fool had seen her so weak, but she was grateful that he had never mentioned it afterwards. 

“Do you want any corpses, my lord?” Dolohov asked, thinking back to the question of making the deceased followers into Infiri for later use. Voldemort considered it for a second, and shrugged.

“If you think you can get them out, do it, but do not compromise the retrieval of the others to retrieve some corpses. They are less important.” Was the command. Nodding, preparing themselves for the upcoming assault, Bellatrix and Dolohov exchanged a look of ‘good luck’ between them. It was almost comical to Bellatrix that she disliked him so much under normal circumstances but in war they were of one mind. Each knew their personal gripes were trivial compared to the struggle before them. “Right – go. And good luck.” 

Dolohov shot off, a greyhound out of the trap, around the to the side he had been sent to. Bellatrix turned to the graveyard wall, looking it up and down to find a good spot to climb. 

“Bella,” Voldemort said quickly, as she put a first foot on the wall she had to climb. The broken bricks provided a perfect footfall. She spun on the spot to face him. “Don’t do anything stupid.” His voice was soft, and a warning. 

“Can’t promise anything, my lord.” She said with a grin, “See you later.” She waved then jumped up to scale the wall. Along the top was a roll of barbed wire. Ducked under the taring bramble a strand of her hair was caught momentarily on one of the hooks. She fumbled with it but was free after a few seconds, slipping under, and jumping down, disappearing into the keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're reading 'The Handmaid's Tale' in my English Literature class at the moment and I am both disgusted and extremely interested in the book, which I suppose is the point, and the hallmark of a good dystopia.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

‘Dementors are horrible beasts’ Voldemort thought, then laughed at himself. Understatement of the millennium. Even with his shrivelled, shattered soul, he could feel the cold sense of dread and despair in the pit of his stomach as he got nearer and nearer to them. A twisting knife, steel, in his lower gut. It was funny, he thought, that dread and depression was always cold. He supposed it was appropriate; it was the only temperature that suited it. There was no passion in that kind of misery, it killed it instead. Just as the cold stifled the fire.

They may be horrid, but they are not intelligent creatures. All they do is follow the best meal, the person with the highest level of issues, or the person that could provide them access to the best meal. He was both, Voldemort mused.

He was glad that he was able to figure out unaided flight when he did, because he could not think of anything worse than flying up to get their attention on a broom. He’d never liked brooms; they’d always felt like a death trap to him. Sitting there, on a tiny piece of wood, barrelling against the wind? No. He’d trust his own body to fly more than he did those contraptions. Perhaps it was his muggle upbringing rearing its ugly head – Voldemort had considered this – however knowing that did not do anything to shake the unease. Especially now, without any horcruxes to fall back on, he was glad he did not have to risk it.

The air was frigid against his skin, both from the dementors and the air movement. They had spotted him, flying up towards them. They could not resist. Thousands of becloaked heads turned to look at him, as if he’d dropped and smashed a plate in the middle of a busy dinner party. Like smoke in the air, drifting in the direction of the Dark Lord, he waited just long enough for him to see the soul sucking mouths of the nearest ones.

He could feel them. Their hunger. Their glee. Their hatred. It was like his vision was going dark around the edges, and at the same time like he was running with an electric current. That was enough for him – he zipped backwards as fast as he could, keeping his eyes on them. Like a tiger, one should never turn your back on them. Voldemort had heard that somewhere: it might have been from Bellatrix actually. It would make sense if it had been – she had a lot of experience with them.

“My lord please!” Suddenly, he could hear her pleading voice ricocheting around his mind, and his stomach dropped. Fucking dementors. He had thought that having such a damaged soul would have stopped them from being able to bring out the bad memories, but apparently, he was wrong.

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” He heard himself sneer, and cringed at his own past stupidity. The past, he could not see, but he could hear it. Perhaps he could ignore it if he focused hard enough? He glared the creatures directly into where the eyes would have been had they been humans, challenging them to keep going.

“I don’t want you to say anything! I just want you to think about what it is you’re doing!” No luck. Bella’s voice pierced the whistling air from so long ago. Her voice sounded a little different, a little higher in pitch than his Bella in the present. It was pre-Azkaban of course, and therefore pre most of her suffering. It was only natural that things should change a little.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I have put a great deal of thought into this. I am going to finish the prophecy off once and for all!” How confident he had been! How would that version of him have reacted had he realised he still would not have finished off the prophecy 17 years later?

A dementor shot past Voldemort, and tried to block his route out. It did not stop him; they were stupid creatures after all. Voldemort ducked down, dipping underneath the creature and popping out on the other side.

“Yes. But should you?” Past Bella’s voice continued, trying to be a voice of reason. This conversation had been burned into his mind for the entirety of his time in exile. It did not hurt him as deeply as it had once done, but it was still a kick to the gut. It had gone from a knife between the ribs to a sucker-punch. Lesser pain, but pain nevertheless.

He had flown so low under now that he was skimming the tops of the waves. The dementors, confused at what was happening, took their time to follow him. Their vision was heat based, quick movement through cold water messed with them. The water parted along the top of the sea as he flew, spray going everywhere, and batting away the creatures. They were far out from Azkaban now; a good three miles or so. The fortress was tiny against the sky; the sunrise was over and the grey midday had begun. The beauty of the North Sea was blotted out though by the swarm of dementors streaming away from the building.

“Why are you questioning me so much, Bella? Who do you think you are to question the judgement of the Dark Lord?” He remembered her backed against the wall, acting like she’d been slapped as his voice had turned biting.

“A concerned friend.” She had said quietly, and he hated himself for laughing at her, cold and patronising. She had continued in spite of his rudeness. “I just think that maybe it would be better to ignore a vague prophecy and focus more on the war.”

“And why would that be?” His voice had been venom.

“You cannot trust prophecies! If I have learned anything from my classical studies its that! Prophecies are always tricksy, they’re always lying!” Voldemort had often wondered which books she had read to figure that out. She had been correct, after all. He remembered being a bodiless spirit, sitting in a cave in Romania, trying to make himself laugh – hoping she’d based that assumption off the story of Oedipus.

“Oh yes, because _EVERYTHING_ you read in 3000-year-old manuscripts is true!” He regretted being cruel. He never regretted cruelty, but this…this he wished he could take back.

He had slowed down; the creatures having been able to distract him for a second. They reached out, grabbing at his robes, breathing him in, trying to suck any joy out of him. He didn’t have much joy in him to begin with – he wasn’t going to let them take what he had. Speeding up, and making a quick decision, he flew straight into an upcoming wave. Soaked to the bone, frozen but pleased, he came out the other side. Several dementors did not. They were sucked down into the swirling deep. Creatures of flight – they would drown. They weren’t strong enough to pull themselves out of the water.

“My lord, please listen. Prophecies never end well! They’re better left alone!” She sounded so close to him, like she was speaking straight into his ear.

“Would you rather I fall? Would you rather I end up destroyed by this…this child?” How ironic he found that statement now. “Would you rather serve another dark wizard?” He had known that would hurt her. He had known, and knew, that she loved him. She thought she was good at hiding it, but she wasn’t. Voldemort had nurtured that love quietly in the first war, because it made her more loyal, then because he enjoyed the attention, then because he liked spending time with her. He…liked Bellatrix. But it was also an easy way to get her to shut up, and to get her to do what he wanted.

“No of course not!” She had insisted.

“Should I start questioning your loyalty?” He had known the right buttons to push.

“Can’t you see I’m trying to _HELP YOU_?” She had cried out. “Something bad is going to happen with this prophecy – I can feel it!” He had been so angry with her at the time. He was ashamed now of what he did next, extremely ashamed. He had cursed her. The cruitatus curse to be exact. Her screams echoed in his mind, as the cloaks of the dementors whipped around his head. He squeezed his eyes shut – the screams so loud it felt as though his brain was shaking. He wondered whether they had actually been that loud at the time, or if his mind (or the dementors) was amplifying it.

“Your opinion is irrelevant – Madame Le-Strange.” He had snarled viciously, being sure to use her married name. It had hurt her more than the curse had done. He had left then; he hadn’t allowed her a chance to say anything. There was no changing his mind then. That had been it. It was the last thing he’d said to her before he’d left that Halloween night. An insult. A put down. A curse. Then everything had gone to shit, she had been right, and he’d never been able to tell her that. 

Snapping his eyes open again, the memory over, Voldemort saw Azkaban far in the distance, with several tiny figures moving around outside the keep. A small horde of people had come swarming out of the hell hole to freedom. A smile cracked the cold visage of his face, and that brief moment of pleasure brought the dementors swarming forward even more. It didn’t matter now. The plan had worked! Using all the strength he had left – he had forgotten how tiring flight was – Voldemort flew at the top speed he could muster. It was just step one, getting them out, but let Potter try and stop them now.

There were seven of them, crawling out of the hell hole. Dolohov walked behind, two corpses over each shoulder, with a pleased grin on his face – happy that he was the first one out it seemed. Voldemort was surprised; he had thought that Bella would have been the one to complete the task the quickest, but he was sure that she would be out in a minute. He landed, elegantly, his bare feet on the wet rocks. It was in fact a miracle that he didn’t slip.

Tattered and thin, like a battlefield flag, the rescued followers stood to attention as he arrived. All but one he knew. He walked along the line up, shaking their hands and congratulating them for their survival. Then he stopped, before the new face. A woman who was once a squat little thing, now having been starved for two months, was considerably thinner than she had once been. Grey roots were growing in thick, pushing the mousy brown dye further down the hair; it had once been permed but the sea air had taken the curl. A wide, unpleasant face, made worst by the exhaustion and hunger looked up at Voldemort in fear. Toadlike: it was the only descriptor that came to Voldemort’s mind. He’d seen her before, covered in vile pink tweed, if memory served him.

“Dolohov, why did you retrieve this ministry woman?” Her name escaped Voldemort at that moment.

“Ms Umbridge was the only one alive in one of the cells I passed, my lord.” Dolohov said, over Umbridge’s terrified shoulders.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Voldemort made sure to sound as serpentine as possible, lingering on the ‘s’ in doesn’t. It always freaked out newcomers, and Umbridge was no exception. Her eyes bulged in her skull – as if she couldn’t look any more froggish – and she took a slight step back from him. The other rescued deatheaters laughed mockingly.

“She has in depth knowledge of the inner workings of the ministry, my lord. I thought that may be useful to the cause.” Dolohov responded reverently.

“Is that correct?” Voldemort looked her up and down with doubt. “Well then, Ms Umbridge, regale us. What areas of experience do you have?”

“Um…” she squeaked. “I just want to thank you, oh gracious lord for rescuing - ”

“We don’t have all day. I am not interested in your inane grovelling.” He hoped Bellatrix would hurry up so he would not have to listen to this woman speak for very long. Where was she?

“Yes, um. I was Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic when Cornelius Fudge was minister, then I was professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, then High Inquisitor, then Headmistress of Hogwarts. And then I was Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission before the battle of Hogwarts.” She rambled. Merlin her voice was irritating. She spoke with a disgusting, sugary high-pitched voice that was quaking in fear.

“Quite the resume.” Voldemort deadpanned, and the deatheaters laughed. He breathed in, so pleased to have the back-up-dancers back. “I suppose we may have some use for you, but should you do anything – be traitorous, be useless, be too irritating – then we shall not drag our feet coming to dispose of you. Do you understand, Ms Umbridge?”

“Um. – yes – yes my lord!” She nodded, all the colour drained for her face, and shook like a leaf. He nodded, then stood up straight.

“Did you see Bellatrix when you were in there Dolohov?” Where was she? It was not like her to be so late. His skin prickled with unease.

“No, my lord. I think I heard her but there was a lot of people screaming, so I was unsure.”

“Um, sorry to interrupt my lord,” Leola Snyde (one of his lesser ranked marked deatheaters) pointed in the direction of the keep. “But that doesn’t happen to have anything to do with Madame Le-Strange, does it?”

Everyone immediately turned on the spot. At the top of the keep, the tell-tale flashes of light from battle curses could be seen. Red. Green. Yellow. Blue. Crutiatus. Avada Kedavra. Reducto. Diffindo. The wind was blowing in the opposite direction to them, but even over that, the roar of Bellatrix’s curses could be heard, extremely faintly. There were other voices too. A large number of them.

“Yes, Mrs Snyde.” Voldemort said through gritted teeth, “Yes I believe it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dum dum dum :0


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Bellatrix had killed the lower level guards, then swaggered into the prison. One with her knife, the other with a killing curse. They had no human guards in the upper levels, only dementors. She supposed it made sense – the guards would been just as affected by the dementors as the prisoners if they worked up there. Quite the workplace hazard. The number of lawsuits the ministry would have to deal with would be ridiculous! She had not stopped to savour the kills. This was an in-out quickly operation. Bellatrix refused to be in this God forsaken place any longer than she had to be.

Everything was just as she remembered, the day she was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the prison. Dark, damp, dingy, the entrance hall’s high roofs loomed over her, condensation dripping down and landing on the end of her nose. It had been the same the first day. One of the guards had smashed Bellatrix on the side of the head, and as her skull was still vibrating and her ears ringing a droplet of water landed right in the middle of her forehead. It had hit her like a bullet to the skull, sending her head flopping backwards and thoughts reeling. Perhaps she was being overly dramatic – but to be fair she was having a really bad day. Later, she had wondered if it was a baptism of misery, or just a coincidence. 

It was eerily silent as she crept through the halls. The only noise was the tapping of her boots on the stone. No screams, no sobs, no groans. It was as if everyone was holding their breaths. Bellatrix did not like it; back when she had been imprisoned there nobody would shut up. She would have felt better had it been loud. Like this, she knew she was being watched, but from exactly where she was not sure. 

Hairs on the back of her neck standing up straight, Bellatrix peered into each cell she passed. Bodies. There were no people in there, only bodies. Soulless, broken, dying bodies. Some of them were completely unrecognisable, just skeletons. Several of them were most certainly dead. Few even looked up when Bellatrix peered in. They would not dare to dream that someone was there to save them.   
“Bellatrix?” A weak voice called out from the pile of the broken. It was very dark in there, but Bellatrix squinted her eyes to see who it was. She was far out in the corner of the room. A buzzed hair which had grown out a bit in the time she had been inside. A dark, auburn colour, dirty and slick with grease – it hadn’t been washed in months. A round face, even despite the starvation, pockmarked with scars, a large burn aside her cheekbone, and dark circles around her eyes.

“Well, you look terrible Alecto.” Bellatrix said, leaning into the cell. She fiddled with the door, and on finding it locked blasted the lock open. “Is anyone else in here alive?” She asked, striding into the room. A few people looked up, surprised at her sudden appearance. 

“Amycus…” Alecto sobbed. “Amycus is dead!”

“Well I am so sorry about that.” Bellatrix said curtly, grabbing Alecto’s arm and pulled her to her feet. “but we’re here to make sure you’re not dead too, so come on.”

“He’s dead…my brother…”

“Can we cry about this later? Like when we aren’t pressed for time?” She said, not very compassionately. Suddenly, Bellatrix pointed at a man shifting slightly on the floor. “Hello Rookwood, I can see you moving.” She kicked him lightly with the end of her boot, which got him to come to his senses. He climbed to his feet at the exact time that Bellatrix forced Alecto into the hallway. 

“You are a heartless bitch, aren’t you?” Alecto sobbed, affronted. 

“Yes. A heartless bitch who is saving your life, moron. Come on!” Bellatrix rolled her eyes. 

After Alecto and Rookwood, Bellatrix managed to collect four others. Corban Yaxley, who had to be carried as his legs had been damaged in the battle, Walden Macnair –missing an eye -, Thorfinn Rowle and Dido Crabbe. It was a bit of a disappointment; she thought that there would have been more of them alive and undamaged. Bellatrix couldn’t say she was saddened by the deaths – she’d never liked most of them that much. Amycus was an irritating little shit and Bellatrix was unsurprised to hear that he had just been allowed to bleed out swiftly with his battle injuries. 

Alecto, being the strongest of the rescued group, had Yaxley around her shoulders, half dragging him down the hallways. Bellatrix out in front, wand pointed out in front of her (just in case), she guided the group to freedom. Dido held Macnair’s hand, as she was worried that the loss of his eye might cause him to be a bit unsure on his feet. Bellatrix did not want to give him that level of care, and was quite pleased that Dido had taken the initiative, so that she would not have to. They did not speak; Bellatrix having threatened to leave them in their cells if they said anything before they had managed to get outside. Now, Bellatrix thought, where the hell is the exit?

They crept down the hall, following behind her. Their footfalls came in time, reminding Bellatrix vaguely of the royal guards that she’d seen practising their formations in Hyde park. Every day she had walked in the park with her grandmama as a child. It was before her sisters had been born, back when she had been the only child in the family. The centre of everybody’s world. The sound of the galloping horses always brought back the smell of the liquorish her grandmama bought, the cold wind against her little cheeks and the strong comfort of her hand in hers. Very different to the place she was in now. 

They had reached the stairs at one end of the prison when they were forced to stop. Bellatrix’s heart fell, but it was not unexpected. She should have known this would happen. There was a person there, climbing the stairs they were about to descend. Bellatrix immediately turned her wand to them. It was a face, and a voice, she recognised. 

“Well, fancy meeting you here.” The girl smirked as she met Bellatrix’s eyes. The mudblood – Potter’s friend. Granger, the name came back to Bellatrix after a couple of seconds. It was fine, Bellatrix thought, she could easily take the girl. It wouldn’t be difficult; she wasn’t as proficient a dueller as Bellatrix. That was, until the next person walked up the stairs. And the next one. 

“Oh – hello.” Bellatrix said, not sure how to respond. There were more and more of them following them up, like water rising up a staircase in a sinking ship. Another, and another, aurors completely blocked that exit. 

“Madame Le-Strange put your wand down and hands up.”

“No, my dear, I won’t be doing that.” Bellatrix hissed evilly, trying to look like she was not bothered by all of them but she was starting to panic. The others had no wands. Alecto’s hands were busy holding Yaxley up. Macnair couldn’t see. None of them were in a fit state to fight. She was alone. If it was just the mudblood, or only a few of them, she would have been fine, but more and more of them kept coming. There had to be at least fifteen of them but she could not see all the way down the stairs. Leaning back, Bellatrix caught Dido’s (fearful) eyes.

“Go down the other stairs,” She whispered, “I’ll buy you some more time.” She then turned to the group of aurors and, breathing in deeply, she shot a killing curse wildly into the group. One of them fell, deadweight into the arms of the man behind her, shrieks of surprise filled the room and chaos erupted. 

Dido pulled the other inmates and forced them into a sprint in the opposite direction at the same moment that Bellatrix put up a containment spell between herself and the aurors, trapping them in the stairwell. It wouldn’t last long. Not when they had over ten times the firepower she did. 

“Sorry to cut this short.” Bellatrix taunted through the barrier, watching as they tried to pierce through it. “But I have better places to be!” She waved sarcastically, then turned tail and followed the others, running at full pelt after them. She had barely made it around the next corner when she heard the barrier shatter, and the thump of boots chasing after her. The vision of muggle military marches in her mind, Bellatrix shot curses wildly over her shoulder. She didn’t even bother to aim. 

“Le-Strange!” She heard the girl shout from behind her, then a shriek as one of her crutiatus curses hit their mark. Her heart beat thumped so loudly in her ears that it was almost blocking out the sound of them coming after her. Almost. She cursed her body, as she could feel the vomit that was threatening to rear its head that morning in her throat. Now was not the time! 

“DON’T STOP DIDO!” Bellatrix screamed, seeing that the group was moving very slowly down the first flight of stairs they had come to. There were only six steps! 

“Yaxley can’t WALK!” Dido screamed back, pointing to Alecto carefully helping him down the steps. 

“HE WON’T HAVE A HEARTBEAT IF YOU DON’T HURRY THE FUCK UP!” Bellatrix retorted, ducking under a stunning spell that would have hit her straight in the head if she hadn’t moved. Wheeling around, she killed the auror who had cast it, the man’s body falling in the path of the others making one of the men trip. The others were gone, when Bellatrix turned back around again. Good. 

“Give it up Le-Strange!” The girl shouted, sounding a little winded but very persistent. “You’re outnumbered!”

Bellatrix’s response was to kill another auror, and to charm the floor into ice, in a hope that they would slip. It worked. She looked over her shoulder to see the aurors barrelling into each other, skidding uncontrollably on the slippery surface. Not Ganger though. Her hair billowing around her as she ran, the girl dodged over all the other, fallen aurors and continued her pursuit of Bellatrix. She growled – should have killed her when she had the chance in Malfoy Manor. Would have saved her a lot of trouble in the long run. 

Shit. Shit! SHIT! On reaching the other staircase out to the sea, Bellatrix saw that the others were only half way down. Even with Rowle and Carrow carrying the less able members of the group down the stairs, they were still going slow. It was no good. If she ran now, sprinting down the stairs after them (to freedom) they were sure to be caught up with. It would be immediate! But they would have a chance of getting out if she stayed at the top, challenging the aurors and buying them more time. It wasn’t even a question in her mind. Bellatrix knew that the retrieval of the deatheaters was more important to the cause than her on her own. The Dark Lord and Dolohov knew how to get in and out of the house in Naples. It just needed to be done. 

Stopping short of the top of the stairs, Bellatrix quickly put up another barrier spell between herself and the top of the stairs, giving them more time to run. 

“You are very irritating, mudblood. I hope you are aware.” Bellatrix spat, turning to face Hermione with pure hatred in her eyes.

“Irritating to a person like you? Good!” Hermione took a fighting stance, preparing for a duel. If that was what she wanted, Bellatrix thought, then that was exactly what she was going to get. 

Red. Green. Yellow. Blue. Crutiatus. Avada Kedavra. Reducto. Diffindo. A curse to knock the girl’s teeth out, bleeding through her empty gums. The air was hot around the fight, crackling, like the air immediately before a lightning strike, the floor cracked. Bellatrix didn’t know why she was so tired – she had battles like this all the time, she had gone from duel to duel in the Battle of Hogwarts several months before and was barely even winded. Now, her limps were heavy, her head sore, the sickness that had been sitting in her stomach for days gurgling. Her boobs hurt as she breathed deeply against the top of her corset, achingly so, the internal structures of them thumping in time with her heart. This really wasn’t the time. Why did her legs shake? Peak performance was far from Bellatrix at that exact moment. 

Shouts from outside, the others re-joining the Dark Lord and Dolohov’s group (Bellatrix could tell) distracted her. Hope that she could escape filled her. She needn’t fall in this bloody prison. One second of pleasure, one moment not paying full attention to her fight. Then, with a blunt beating sensation against her skull, everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a busy week for me lol - been applying to uni and it's a headache.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Seeing the lights fall dead and the screaming stop as the deatheaters left the building had Voldemort feeling sick. There was something terribly wrong. One moment he had been pleased, seeing a group of them running away from the prison and expecting to be away from the place soon. But, scanning the group and not seeing her face among them left him feeling distinctly uneasy. He was unaware of himself as his feet moved in the direction of the group. Bellatrix was not there.

“Carrow!” She was the first one he spotted properly, Macnair clinging to her arm like a scared child. Face pink and blotchy, she looked like a flustered pig. “What’s happening?”

“…there were aurors in the building!” She tried to catch her breath as she ran. The gaggle stopped before him, and seeing the tattered people had his heart sinking too. Weak: they would take a while to recover. While they were bowing and thanking him for the rescue, Voldemort barely even registered them. He didn’t even need to ask what had occurred: he already guessed that Bellatrix had thrown herself into the path of the aurors to buy them time. She’d done it before, but had always gotten out quickly afterwards.

“Bella is still inside isn’t she?”

“She was duelling the mudblood Granger last time I saw her, my lord.” Carrow nodded.

Later, Voldemort would regret doing what he did next. He should not have done it. He should have stayed there, he should have gone into the prison and come to her aid. But he didn’t. Voldemort had nodded, shared a look with Dolohov and had taken the rescued deatheaters back to the Neapolitan house. Each deatheater had been thrown into a room to clean up and sleep whilst he had gone to ground. He couldn’t face sitting in the same room as Cygnus’ painting at that point. The painting had asked where Bellatrix was, and Voldemort had left Dolohov to explain.

After a particularly violent trip to the courtyard, which ended in Voldemort shattering all available windows and uprooting all the weeds (setting them on fire in his fury) he had stormed off inside the house. The violence did not have the desired affect; he was not composed whatsoever. It didn’t help that he could imagine Bellatrix laughing, and thanking him for doing the gardening. Nor did it help that he knew Dolohov was watching him from the broken kitchen windows. Should he say anything, Voldemort would torture him within an inch of his life – and that was a promise, not a threat.

He had to justify his actions to himself somehow. She would understand why he had done it. The cause was one of the most important things to her – Bellatrix would not have wanted to be the reason that they had lost everything again. She was not dead. He would have felt it if she had been killed. At least, that was what he had told himself. A little voice, deep down in the back of his mind reminded him that scores of deatheaters had died in the battle of Hogwarts and he had felt nothing. Another voice scolded that one, warning it not to compare Bella to the likes of Rodolphus and Greyback.

The only room he was drawn to was his bedroom. He sat down heavily on the bed, purposefully ignoring the fact that it was unmade from the night before. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bellatrix’s nightie balled up, and thrown onto a chair. Black silk, lacy. She’d rolled out of bed that morning, unhappily, and had violently discarded it during her search for battle gear. He turned away, focusing on a spider crawling up the corner of the room. The spider was unimpressed with him, and continued with her work regardless.

Thinking entirely practically, this was not a huge set back. He had a small army worth of people now, and Bellatrix was only one in many. The plan had worked; he had come out with many more followers than he had gone in. Only one loss was amazing for what they were doing.

But he was not thinking practically.

The memory that the dementors had brought forth in his mind was echoing in his thoughts, particularly the sound of Bellatrix screaming. Was she in pain? Was she scared? Was she thinking of him? He had left her again: was she feeling abandoned? Stuck in a cold dark cell, members of the order trying to force a response out of her. They would not kill her, which was a slight reassurance, because they knew that she had information. And because they were weak, moral mortals but that was unimportant for the moment. Desperate methods are taken by desperate people and Bella would never divulge information on her own. It was odd, to him, the feeling of concern for another person and it was not a feeling he enjoyed.

Before he could spiral any further, there was a knock on the door. He supposed it had to be Dolohov; none of the others would dare, and none of the others were in a state to disturb him. Voldemort called for him to enter. Dolohov bowed reverently and apologised for disturbing him.

“Cygnus Black has made several demands, my lord.” Dolohov said, standing in the doorframe, not daring to step any further into the room. It was not a space in which Dolohov was welcome, he knew that. It didn’t stop his eyes looking around, taking in the space. The unmade bed and abandoned women’s garments were not lost on him. 

“Tell him he can go fuck himself.” Voldemort growled, disgusted that the painting would dare to do such a thing at this time. Traitorous pigments.

“I thought you might say that,” Dolohov said, shrugging, “but he is threatening to go to his other paintings to ‘have a nice chat’ with the Order if he isn’t listened to.”

“Bastard.” Voldemort had never been able to stand the man, and this was just the icing on the cake of deep insults. “What does he want?”

Dolohov scratched the back of his neck, and didn’t look the Dark Lord in the eyes.

“He wants you to get Bellatrix back, sir.” He said quietly, and a pang of pain hit Voldemort in the lower gut. He refused to let it register on his face but he felt a steel-tipped boot kick straight into his stomach. “He is very insistent on it actually. He is worried about her.”

“She isn’t a child; she can look after herself.” He had to say it, angered by the implication that Cygnus didn’t think his daughter was powerful enough handle herself. Cygnus had always put her down. The prick had argued that Bellatrix should be barred from being a deatheater back in the early days. Disappointment in the direction his daughter had taken her life had been evident, even after he had stopped saying it out loud. Voldemort sighed, pressed his hands to his face then sat up again. “Tell him we’ll do whatever it takes.” There was no question in his mind on what he was going to do. He had to get her back. Whether Cygnus had asked or not, it was the only route Voldemort would have taken. He owed it to Bella.

“Of course, my lord.”

Suddenly remembering the sleeping soldiers, and the rumours that would most certainly spread (even quicker than they already were) he quickly added: “Oh, and don’t talk to any of the others about this.” The damage done to his reputation should any of their rumours be ‘confirmed’ would be catastrophic. He would need to play this situation carefully.

“No, my lord. My lips are sealed.” There was a ghost of a smile on Dolohov’s face, and Voldemort wanted to hit him. This was not entertaining. Dolohov bowed again, but as he turned to leave, he paused for a second. “Um…I’m sure she’ll be ok.” He said in an attempt to be comforting. Voldemort was somewhere between grateful and disgusted that he would dare to talk to him like that, and didn’t trust himself to respond appropriately.

“Yes.” He said simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday is my 'study day' from college and I wrote this instead of doing my English Lit homework, so I hope it was worth it lol.
> 
> Also thank you so much for all the lovely comments I was grinning most of the morning :D


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Light. Eyes shutting in a dark ellipsis. Pounding headache. Eyes open again. Vision blurry – the space ahead slanted and too bright. Everything white and cream. Squeezing them shut and opening them again did little to improve her sight.

Bellatrix’s first thought was heaven, but that was out of the question. She doubted she’d hurt this much if she was dead, and she most certainly would not be in heaven. Chest tight, breathing sore, head so heavy she felt like a bobble-headed doll; she was not having a good time. She lay on her side, uncomfortable against a hard surface, cheek smushed into metal. It took all the effort she had to sit up straight. Memories coming back to her quickly, Bellatrix pressed her hands to her forehead.

“Well,” she thought, “this isn’t good.” She blinked rapidly, the only thing she could do to try and focus her eyes again. The room became clearer and clearer as she did so. A cell – nicer than the one she’d been in for her stint in Azkaban (she knew for certain it was not in Azkaban just based on the fact that she was not cold) – greeted her. White walls, white tiled floors, fluorescent white squared lights in the roof. There was a table and two chairs, taking up most of the room. A large mirror covered the entire wall opposite her. It had to be one-way glass; Bellatrix was not alone.

“Fucking hell.” She slid down from the bench she’d awoken on. Legs a little wobblily, but they regained their strength quickly as she used them. This was a mess to be sure. Pacing from one side of the cell to the other – barely six strides long – Bellatrix considered her options. The floor was secure, she could feel no movement whatsoever in the tiles. A shame – digging out of the cell would be fun. The mirror could maybe be moved, but it would take some time, and if it was really one-way glass she would be caught immediately.

She stopped, looking intently at the mirror, trying to see through it. No luck. All she saw was herself – looking very much worse for ware – staring back at her, angrily. Ashen faced, hair so matted it could have been mistaken for ship’s rope, a darkening bruise on the side of her head – she looked as bad as she felt. She was still in her battle garb which was a plus. It was good to know they hadn’t changed her whilst she was unconscious. She shifted uncomfortably in the corset, the tightness she normally loved about it being far to constricting for her now.

What was this new ministry’s stance on execution? Now that was a question. Studying her reflection, schooling her features into an unreadable mask, Bellatrix found herself wondering whether they would use public execution to their advantage. This was a new government, after all, led by new minds. Perhaps they would try to get some information out of her, but then kill her in front of everyone as a message. It was what she would have done in their position. The last lot – never would have happened. But the last few hours had given Bellatrix cause not to underestimate what these fuckers would do.

They must have been waiting for them; there was no other reason that many aurors would have been in Azkaban at once. Exactly how they had figured it out Bellatrix could not say. What had tipped them off? At that moment, Bellatrix decided she was going to put all the blame on Dolohov, even just because of his obnoxious clothing. Maybe they’d seen his highlighter bright shirts from space or something? She stepped back from the mirror and, seeing nothing better to do, sat back down on the metal bench she’d woken up on.

Did they think she was dead? She really hoped not – she would be genuinely offended if they thought she’d been taken out by a goddam mudblood.

Suddenly a deep fury rose in her. She was a little scared actually of how quickly she had gone from just regular irritated to blind fury. How the hell had she ended up in this ridiculous fucking situation?! In a white fucking box, all alone again. Jumping back up, shaking in anger, Bellatrix threw herself at the door in a vain attempt to break it down. Five times, screaming bloody murder as she did it, Bellatrix smashed her shoulder into the door. It did nothing other than hurt her arm. The door didn’t even move! She kicked hard in defeat and moped back over to the bench.

If she was stuck here, Bellatrix thought, she absolutely refused to say anything. They could beat her, they could torture her, they could drug her – she would say nothing. Obviously, she would prefer none of these things to happen, but needs must. Her wand was gone, she checked as she sat there, as was the knife she had put in her boot. 

Hoping beyond hope that her rescue was a priority, Bellatrix swung her legs backwards and forwards like a small child. She tried to convince herself that Voldemort was going to come and rescue her. She thought that he would – he got her out of Azkaban as soon as he was able. But that was fourteen years after she’d been arrested, how long will she be here?

The door banged open, breaking her reverie like a shattered vase. Bellatrix was not sure who she had expected to walk through the door – back in the first war it would have been Moody but the bastard was dead – but she certainly was not expecting to be greeted by Potter himself. Blue t-shirt with a black collar and jeans, he did not look intimidating at all. Moody was far better at it on that front. He was however Harry Potter, and Bellatrix found herself a little proud that they had considered her so important as to have the figure head be the one to talk to her. On the other hand, she was psyching herself up to rip his eyes out.

“Madame Le-Strange.” Potter said politely, much to her surprise. He sat down at the table, gesturing for her to sit at the seat opposite him. He looked older somehow than he had in the forest and the battle, tired. More like a man than a boy. Bellatrix didn’t like it – seeing him grown had her feeling old.

“Potter.” She matched his tone, deciding to see where the conversation would take her, and sat down. She was incredibly suspicious.

“So, how are you feeling?” He pressed his finger tips together in a triangle on the table in front of him. Patronising, Bellatrix thought. She glared at him, trying to figure out what he was doing.

“…fine…yourself?”

“I’m great. Did you not hurt your shoulder?” He said, smirking. So, he had been watching her; she knew it! Slightly embarrassed that she’d been seen failing to break down a door, Bellatrix sniffed offendedly. She had hurt her shoulder, and was knew there was going to be a bruise there soon. It was just another injury on top of the others; the bruise on her head was far more painful.

“It will take much more than a door to hurt me, Potter.” She hissed, tapping her nails along the top of the table. They were quite long now, her nails, and had been painted black. Claws. He apparently didn’t believe her, and laughed.

“Does being abandoned by your boss hurt you, Bellatrix?” Potter said, sharply. Bellatrix didn’t know what to say to that for a second. He would not have abandoned her. Voldemort had gone out of his way to keep her from Azkaban back in the Department of Mysteries incident. He’d rescued her from Azkaban as soon as he’d been able to.

“I haven’t been abandoned, so no.” Bellatrix simply refused to believe Potter’s ridiculous statement.

“Oh really?” Potter readjusted his glasses. “Because he was seen leaving the scene before you had been taken prisoner. That seems like abandonment to me. Surely if you were the ‘most loyal’ deatheater he had, he wouldn’t have left you behind.” Potter leant back in his chair, proudly putting his cards on the table.

“Little boy hasn’t heard of strategy.” Bellatrix taunted, hiding the hurt very well. She had not expected that. In her gut she didn’t believe him: this was clearly a mind game being played with her, to try to get her to talk. A simple strategy, child’s play in the interrogation industry. But that surety didn’t do anything to stop the constriction in her chest, or the stabbing pain in her heart.

“So, what is the strategy?”

“Ha!” That statement proved the falsehood to Bellatrix. “You need to work on your interrogation technique Potter. This is just pathetic.” She grinned and leant back, relaxed, in the chair. Potter was very clearly angered by this; he looked much more childish, scowling and pursing his lips slightly, he sighed.

“Look Le-Strange – if you are not going to say anything, we have other methods to make you talk.”

“I am pleased to know that your lot has finally gotten over your morality hang-ups in regards to this.” Bellatrix said, mockingly supportive giving him a thumbs up.

“You’re not going to be tortured, we’re not barbarians like you lot. Veritiserum is much more civilised.” Ah yes – veritiserum. It had been a popular prank back in her Hogwarts days for people to slip the damn thing into people’s drinks or food. Rita Skeeter had put it in Narcissa’s drink on one of her first days in the school and poor Cissa had embarrassed herself under its influence, then had refused to show her face in the great hall for weeks. Bellatrix had gotten her into her first physical fight beating the shit out of Rita, and had broken the bitch’s collarbone with a single punch. Ever since, Bellatrix had not had a particularly high opinion of the potion. 

“Oh yes, drugging is much, much better.” Bellatrix said sarcastically.

“Legally,” Potter started, and Bellatrix mimicked him, irritating Potter greatly. He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “we have to take a blood-test from anyone we give it to – just in case of an allergic reaction.” One of the boys in her year at school had an allergic reaction to it when he’d been pranked; he’d nearly died, and spent weeks in the hospital wing because of it. Bellatrix however knew she was not in the same position. Let them waste their time doing a damn blood test!

“Yes, because one can’t talk when their airways are slowly closing, can they?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, you will have a hard time getting any blood from me dipshit. Blood so pure should never be wasted.” She crossed her arms and turned away slightly, flipping her hair over her shoulder. It would have been somewhat charming, had she not been battered, dirty and alone. Instead it just looked pathetic. He rolled his eyes, disgusted at her.

“We’ll see about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been quite inspired over the last few days lol 
> 
> Also some fucker RICK-ROLLED my Law tutor today! In a kahoot game! I…I just can’t…. I didn’t know people were still doing that shit XD


	20. Chapter Twenty

They had certainly improved their cells in the last few years, Bellatrix thought. It was warm, and quiet, and there were no dementors. The bench had been replaced with a bed about an hour before, and that was at least comfortable, even if everything was white. White walls, white floor, white furniture, white bedsheets, white fucking light. It hurt to see.

She knew that there were eyes upon her; that’s what the mirror wall was for. She could sense them looking at her. Who exactly ‘they’ was Bellatrix was unsure – it could have been anyone from the Order. Breathing in deeply, she tried to look as dignified as possible. Bellatrix could revert back to an elegant lady when she wanted to, and she would make sure that she looked as unbothered as possible with her capture. Holding her chin up, jaw clenched, she sat with perfect posture.

They’d been watching when they’d taken her blood too. Perhaps she’d been a little hasty saying that they were never going to get any; this room was apparently blocking her access to her magic, and the three men they’d sent to collect it from her had to each be six foot to her five foot two. Fair to say, the ensuing struggle had not been an even competition. She had managed to knock one of them out cold, but she’d been overpowered nevertheless. Poor bloody sportsmanship! Bellatrix had been left to lick her wounds for several hours since then, and she was beginning to wonder what was taking them so long.

Bellatrix was certain it was night time when Potter came back in, with a dark look on his face. Troubled. She thought that he looked like a healer that was about to tell her that she had three weeks to live or something. Finding that hilarious, she said with mock seriousness: “Do you have bad news for me? Am dying? Do I have some terrible blood-borne disease?”

“Sort of.” Potter huffed, and sat down on the chair across from her. Bellatrix’s face fell – confused. She could tell that he wasn’t joking. “So, tell me. Have you had had fun in the months since the battle, Bellatrix?” There was an edge in Potter’s voice, and Bellatrix could tell that he knew something that he wanted to get her to admit herself. For the life of her though – Bellatrix couldn’t put her finger on what it would be. Aggravated that he had called her ‘Bellatrix’ instead of Madame Le-Strange (there was no respect anymore), she gritted her teeth and smiled tightly.

“Oh yes – it’s been wonderful. How about you? Enjoyed burying your friends?”

“Did you enjoy burying your husband?” He snapped back, and Bellatrix grinned, knowing that she had gotten under his skin. “It must have been hard knowing that the person you’d spent your life with is dead.”

“Rodolphus is missed – by everyone who knew him well.” She said simply, sitting back and leaning against the back of the chair. Why was he asking? Bellatrix knew she was still being watched, through that bloody mirror, and she felt certain that she was the only one not in on the joke.

“He was a good friend then?” There was that look again. Potter knew something, something big, but Bellatrix couldn’t think of anything that would rouse such a response. She glared at him, suspiciously.

“Yes?”

“A good husband?” Potter asked, with a look of pure contempt on his face.

“Yes?” She wasn’t lying. He knew when to leave her the hell alone and not to ask too many questions, and she had done the same for him. It had been a perfectly fine arrangement, all things considered. Hearing her response, Potter smirked with a very ‘I got her’ look plastered all over his insufferable face.

“Did he know you were cheating on him?” He asked, triumphantly, as if it was the reveal of the murderer in those terrible murder-mystery books Rodolphus used to love. He did know, that was part of the arrangement. They could sleep with whomever they wanted, no questions asked. This was a partnership, not real marriage. He was ‘cheating’ on her too, and Bellatrix didn’t care. Still, she didn’t know how Potter would have known that. Even if Draco or Lucius had told them (she would not believe that Narcissa would have spilled the beans) why would it be important now? 

“What makes you level that accusation?” She snarled and Potter crossed his arms, proudly.

“Your husband died 8 weeks ago right?”

“Right.” Nearly nine now actually, but she wasn’t in the mood to correct him.

“Then why does your blood test say that you’re five weeks pregnant?”

“What?” Bellatrix blinked.

“You’re five weeks pregnant.” Potter said again, a look of realisation on his face that she had absolutely no idea. There was pause, a beat of silence but Bellatrix couldn’t stop the manic laugh that escaped her next. It completely blew her ‘elegant lady’ act but the statement was just too ridiculous to keep any semblance of composure through. Potter – and she was sure the bastards on the other side of the mirror were too- looked at her like she was completely insane.

“Oh really?” She laughed sarcastically. “Come on! Think of a better lie than that! I’m forty-six!” She pointed to herself, incredulously. “I mean, I know I look stunning but I am much too old for this.”

“This isn’t a joke Bellatrix!” Potter looked really taken aback by her reaction, like he was expecting her to break down sobbing or something with the news.

“I’m nearly fifty, I spent fourteen years in Azkaban, and that’s not exactly a great place for menstrual-health, and I have had issues with conception in the past. You need to think about who exactly it is you are trying to screw with before you pull stunts like this. You’re lack of audience awareness is disturbing.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’ve never managed to spawn before: who’d want YOU as a mother.” He sneered. Bellatrix clutched at her chest – as if she was clutching at her pearls – in mock offence. She was actually a little offended, truth be told. She was certain she’d be a fantastic mother – she’d have very talented kids. “if you are so instant that you aren’t, I will have them bring you a test to prove it.”

“Alright, do it.” Bellatrix shrugged. She would just be proved right.

“HERMIONE – CAN YOU GET HER A TEST.” Potter screamed. Bellatrix was not surprised to hear she was there.

“Oh, the mudblood is here? Hello!” Bellatrix waved at the mirror. “I will kill you – and that’s a promise you _bitch!_ ” The cheeriness turned to a shriek.

“Don’t call her that! Shut up!” Potter snapped at her and smacked her hand that was resting on the table. Bellatrix looked back at him, amused, and told him that children shouldn’t hit, which pissed him off even more. “So, who’s the Father Bellatrix?”

“It must be an immaculate conception.” She deadpanned. She was actually quite surprised she was able to keep a straight face to say it. Inwardly, she was freaking out. This was such a weird thing to lie about. For what reason would they think it was a good way to psychologically torture her? It would not help them in any way! But they simply had to be fucking with her. She had not had a proper, healthy period since before Azkaban; she was nearly fifty – the menopause was coming at any time now; the dark lord was more serpentine than person: there was no way she was pregnant.

“Oh, are you ‘Mary, mother of Christ’ now?” Potter rolled his eyes.

“Seems like it.” Bellatrix shrugged.

“Just tell us the truth, Bellatrix. Have you been sleeping with Dolohov?” That pushed her over the edge again. Cackling madly, tears in her eyes, she was certain that they were fucking with her. There was nobody who had actually done any research on her that would think that was even a possibility.

“What’s so funny about that?” Potter looked confused. Bellatrix knew why he was confused: he was young, and probably still equated lust and love together. He just would not put it together that she had been sleeping with someone who’d been described, and described himself, as unable to love. 

“He is not my type!” The idea of Dolohov having sex was so repulsive to her that Bellatrix had to fight back a shudder.

“And who is your type?”

“Men who don’t regularly wear purple Hawaiian shirts, unironically!” Horrible style – it was so disgusting. Then, a thought bubbled up into her brain and she smiled triumphantly. “Hey, if this is true then you can’t give me veriteserum now can you?”

“Why would we lie about this? Things would be so much easier if you weren’t.” Potter was clearly getting tired with repeating the lie over and over again. Bellatrix was almost disappointed. Interrogation was a speciality of hers and the kind of mild belligerence she was performing was nothing. Mad-Eye Moody was the worst interrogation she’d ever had, he’d bitten off one of her fingers and it had to be reattached. “There are far more ways to get you to talk if you aren’t pregnant.” He huffed.

“You can still do those things, but you are too much of a coward to actually do it.” Bellatrix pointed out.

“Surprise surprise, the deatheater doesn’t have any maternal instincts.” Potter laughed, putting his arms up and turning to the mirror wall. ‘I told you so’ was painted all over his face.

“I don’t believe you!”

“You will see it for yourself when that pregnancy test gets here. There is no reason for us to lie about this. You are pregnant, tell us who you have been sleeping with.”

“You seem to have a fixation on my sex life Potter – got a fantasy?” Bellatrix wiggled her eyebrows and he made a gagging noise. She was not sure whether it was an involuntary reaction or not.

“You’re disgusting, no way.”

“Denial, Potter.” She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs at the knee. “Also, would like to point out that you are accusing me of sleeping with someone three weeks after my husband died. That ain’t cheating asshole – till death do we part and all that jazz.” Potter ignored her point.

“Who is this baby’s father? Or do you not know?”

“Are you calling me a whore?” Bellatrix laughed. Narcissa had said the same thing on many an occasion, in front of and behind her back. The insult had never gotten under Bella’s skin. Whore was just such a funny sounding word: like the sound someone makes when another steps on their back. Bellatrix admitted that she could be described as many horrible words – bitch, cunt, psychotic, evil etc – however she could say for certain that whore was the only one that wasn’t completely accurate. She’d only slept with either the Dark Lord or Rodolphus since 1974, and she hadn’t slept with Rodophus since they were first arrested back in ‘83.

It had to be the Dark Lord’s. There was literally no other option. Fuck. Wait no, why was she even contemplating it as a possibility? No- she did not believe this tripe.

“You can confirm or deny it, Bellatrix. Do you know who it’s father is.” So, he wasn’t denying the insult. Ok.

“Of course, I do.” She said huffily, then corrected herself when he raised an eyebrow. “If this is even true, which I highly doubt.”

“Well, who have you been sleeping with then? Because I cannot think of anyone else who’d want to sleep with **you** that you’ve been in contact with in the past few months.” She thought about all the time she’d spent in the bed with the Dark Lord, and smiled, knowingly.

“Oh – I’m so offended. But you are so wrong, it’s actually quite funny.” This smile did not escape Potter’s notice and he practically growled he was so annoyed with her.

“Who have you slept with, for Merlin’s sake!”

“Just asking the same question over and over again will not make me say anything, dipshit.” Bellatrix was so pleased with how exacerbated he looked. If he thought she was being a problem now – well – he had a horrible surprise to come.

He was about to continue – probably saying something stupid – when the door flew open and Granger entered the room, a small box in hand. Bellatrix dragged a finger across her throat, making direct eye contact with the girl as she did so. She mouthed ‘you’re dead’. It was more ludicrous than scary. She was ignored.

“Still in the packaging – just in case you want to make a scene about it being tampered with.” Granger said, placing the test down on the table in front of her. Bellatrix made a sarcastic comment about how she never makes a scene and grabbed the box. It was a blood test, prick a finger, wait five minutes, hey presto. Scowling, she pulled the cellophane off and extracted the test.

“Are you planning on staring at me the entire time or what?” Bellatrix asked, holding the test up to her finger. Granger was stood, looking over Potter’s shoulder and the pair was glaring down at her like gargoyles.

“Yes. Do it.” Potter said. Sighing, she decided to comply. It stung going in (‘ _that’s what she said_ ’ wringing in her ears) and blood pooled on the end of her index finger. Red on white, a stark contrast, rolled down her hand and wrist like a tear. She did it on purpose – to make the situation as dramatic as possible.

It was a tense five minutes of silence waiting for it to show some results. Nothing was said. Bellatrix watched the blood on her hand dry crusty and brown, the others watched her in disbelief that this creature was the one so feared. Perhaps they were trying to decipher what she was thinking? Her mind was occupied with how funny this story would be when she told the Dark Lord. Legendary escape, then dinner and she’d break out the anecdote of the time the Order Of The Phoenix decided to try to convince her she had a bun in the oven. She had many more stories, far more unbelievable than this.

The glowed when it was done – a luminescent ‘look at me’ that overpowered even the white of the room. It took only a second for her to see it. Less than a second for her heart to drop.

…Oh shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dum...dum...dum
> 
> (I know this is cliché I'm sorry lol)  
> Also I like the idea of Bellatrix being short and angry...I don't know why


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

It was not what it used to be, but it would do. The table in the Naples house was not as long as the table in Malfoy Manor Voldemort had previously used to host meeting, but (luckily enough) there were less deatheaters this time around. He’d grabbed a high-backed chair and put it at his spot at the end of the table. It was not as fancy as the throne he’d once had but yet again it would do. Dolohov had done the rest. The other chairs were mismatched; some were dining chairs; one had been taken from the tiny office; two were garden chairs that had once sat on the patio, and one was a cheap, white plastic chair, growing with green moss that someone had dumped in the alley behind the house. Needs must.

Orphne had been sculking around the room, following either him or Dolohov around, squeaking, hissing and growling. She had kept asking why there were so many people around, and where Bellatrix was. Voldemort had told her that she was doing something for him, not wanting to tell her the truth. That felt like it was making it real. Orphne was also complaining about how Umbridge kept trying to pet her, and asked Voldemort to get her to stop.

“That’s going to be difficult I’m afraid.” He’d said.

Voldemort had put Umbridge on the plastic chair as a little punishment for annoying the chimera. It was too short for the table and, her being shorter than average anyway, her head was barely peeking out over the top. Good –it meant they didn’t have to look at her as much. She was the most irritating person who had ever sat at his table. Even bloody Lucius was more bearable than her, and that was quite the feat given Lucius’ recent failings. Voldemort was not pleased to have her there to say the least.

He had to move Cygnus’ painting out of the room before their first meeting. He had not shut up since they had returned from Azkaban.

“You have brought naught but misery to this family!” Cygnus had screeched, likely waking up most of the house, as Voldemort carried the painting out of the room. “Everything you’ve done has hurt the House of Black!”

“It was your choice to support the movement.” Voldemort had muttered, not best pleased with the abuse. He had spent the night before researching on how to kill a painting with no luck. He couldn’t find any information on how to hurt the painting either. He vowed he’d find a way at some point – he had more important things to worry about at the moment. Namely, retrieving Bellatrix from whatever hole she’d been dumped in.

“Support based on false promises and the manipulation of hopes!” Cygnus had said dramatically. Such a primadonna, Voldemort thought. “Your movements pushed Andromeda and Sirius away! You killed Regulus – yes I know about that and - ”

“You are just as responsible for those incidents as I am.” Voldemort had snapped, dropping the painting harshly on the desk. The force of the drop knocked Cygnus over, and he briefly dropped out of frame. He had brought him to the tiny office room, mainly because there was a lock, and it was far away from the meeting room. “It wasn’t me that told you to disown your daughter – you did that all of your own accord.” Cygnus jumped back to his feet and brushed himself down.

“I didn’t murder my nephew!” He spat.

“Look, we’re doing all we can to find Bellatrix.” Voldemort knew that this hate was only coming out now because she was missing. It wasn’t helpful. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t like Voldemort wanted her gone, quite the opposite. There was a hole without her. He had caught himself putting a seat out for her – a comfortable one – then realising there was no need. Still, he didn’t want anyone else sitting in her usual spot, to the left of him. Nobody else deserved it.

“You’d better! Or I am going straight to my Grimmauld Place painting. I bet they’d be very interested in everything I’ve overheard.”

“Calm down Cygnus. Have a drink, or whatever it is paintings do for leisure.” Voldemort had left then, locking the door after him.

Sitting in his seat, surrounded by followers, things seemed strange. Like things were back to normal, but in a twisted alternative reality. Cleaned, washed and fed, all the deatheaters looked very pleased with themselves. It was right, but wrong. Bellatrix should have been there. Instead, Dolohov was sat to his left and Carrow to his right, bouncing ideas off each other. His first decree was the continuation of the chaos, similar in vein to what Dolohov and Bellatrix were doing before. They were excited, bloodthirsty, ready for revenge against the Order. Rookwood was gleefully sharpening a knife (Dolohov had given him one of the knives he acquired in the States); Snyde was ringing her hands together excitedly, grinning; Macnair sat with his elbows on the table, leaning closer to the conversation.

“Gringotts I’d say,” Rowle suggested, “hit them in the wallet – it’d hurt them the worst.” It was a good idea, he’d worked there once, he’d know some of the best routes in. Voldemort nodded and gave the go ahead for the attack. This time, however, secrecy was not needed. The dark mark should be flying over all of Britain, a flag over a conquered castle.

“A second task must also be completed.” Voldemort began, knowing that he was about to the open pandora’s box of rumours. They been there since the beginning: the first one he had heard was that Bella was ‘ _using sex to climb through the ranks of the deatheaters_ ’ – and that had been before he’d ever slept with her. It was merely a group of resentful pricks who couldn’t accept that a young woman was better than them. “Information will need to be gathered to discover the whereabouts of Bellatrix Le-Strange, then putting in the work to retrieve her from wherever that is.”

Silence – he knew it, they were all shocked by that statement. No jaws dropped, they were far more subtle than that, but eyes widened slightly, little looks were exchanged and Dido smirked slightly. She had clearly just won a bet, Voldemort thought, and set his jaw.

“My lord?” Rookwood furrowed his bows, “why is such an emphasis being put on finding Le-Strange? There are people enough to fill her place.” He shrugged, and gestured to everyone. Oh merlin – he should not have said that. Even the other deatheaters recognised the danger in that statement.

Voldemort was completely livid, hands shaking under the table – thankfully out of sight. How dare he! How fucking DARE he!

“Says the man who got stuck in a Hogwarts cupboard in the battle.” To Voldemort’s surprise, Dolohov retorted. A snicker travelled around the table, most of the deatheaters apparently hearing of that little incident for the first time. “Le-Strange saved your life dickhead, remember that.” Rookwood was pink, shrinking into himself in embarrassment. This was made worse by the glare Voldemort fixed him with.

“Dolohov is correct, Rookwood. Perhaps you should consider your own faults when criticising others,” his voice was venomous. “Perhaps you think before questioning the wisdom of your Lord.” Rookwood began to apologise profusely, which was cut short as a powerful, scarlet cruitatus curse wrapped around him. He screamed, like a little girl, and smacked his head forward onto the polished wood of the table, in an involuntary muscle contraction. Voldemort held him in the curse for a couple of seconds, letting the hate he felt towards the simpering fool flow. As if he was at all on the same level as Bella: as if any other them were. They were cannon fodder, tools. Bella was a warrior.

“Does anyone else have a problem with this?” As he suspected, nobody spoke up, heads looked down suddenly finding their knees very interesting. “Good. Let us begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're reading the Handmaid's tale in English Lit and today we were comparing it to a poem called "Vultures" by Chinua Achebe and the whole time I was thinking 'wow this is what I see the Bellamort relationship as'. 
> 
> So - it's a dark one but if you want to read it:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vultures_(poem)


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Wizened trees, thin and drooping under the weight of their leaves, covered a small hill. It was muddy. That thick kind of mud with gravely bits stuck in it – viscous like a half-baked tray of brownies, but with none of the sweetness – that stuck to boots and refused to be removed. A building stood in the trees. Once, it would have been a beautiful place, a bandstand, or a pavilion. Plaster peeled from the walls, showing the red brick underneath. Greco-Roman style columns held up the roof, which was now gone. A rusting iron frame stood tall, the only part of the roof that remained, where that iron once held up glass for the sunroof. Weeds grew up, around the outside of the building and between the paving stones within. It looked like a wreck: the perfect place to hide a wizarding bunker.

Wrapped in darkness, hidden in the drooping leaves, Dolohov lay in wait. He was not happy to be there. Everyone else had been given interesting missions. Dido, Leola and Rookwood were in Newcastle – given permission to destroy the dockyards. Rowle and Macnair were busy scoping out Gringotts, and probably having a good drink while they were doing it. But he was here. Up a tree. In the drizzle. Middle of the night. The tree was moving slightly in the wind, and the branch he was sat on was swaying. He did not like it one bit.

Voldemort had sent him here after information was squeezed out of Umbridge. Dolohov had watched the irritating bitch make herself look smaller and smaller, curling up in the chair pathetically, as she exposed all the dirty secrets she knew about ministry. Dolohov was not impressed by her: if you are going to switch allegiances at least be dignified about it. Instead she, terrified of the Dark Lord glaring down at her, had weaselled and wept the entire time. Dolohov was unsure as to why she was crying – and the confused look on the Dark Lord’s face suggested that he felt the same way – because she was not actively being tortured at the time. Sure, there had been a slight threat levied her way – “talk willingly or we’re going to make you talk” – and it was merely that which had set her off.

“During the first war,” Umbridge had sniffed, snot that had dripped from her nose shooting back up into her nostril again, “the ministry had several bunkers built. They stored magical weaponry and such there at the time, but since a lot of them have been used to house people of interest before court cases, a dementorless environment just in case the person is found innocent at trail.”

“Do you have the locations of these places, or just rumours? Rumours are not useful to me.” The Dark Lord had hissed and Umbridge practically slid off the chair as she’d tried to escape his anger. Dolohov was disgusted. He seen her in the Ministry before, running around like a trumped-up little toad, so pleased with herself. Where was that version of her? Dolohov would have preferred that Umbridge over the creature he saw now: at least that one would be entertaining to bully. This one was just sad.

“Yes! Yes of course, my Lord.”

And she had. Several locations in fact. All over the country, from John O’Groats to Exeter, from Derry to Cardiff, little bunkers were scattered around, ready for any auror who needed them. Back in the first war, this information would have been explosive. Everyone would have cheered, there would have been a riotous party that the Dark Lord would have called a ‘disgrace’ but then would have been spotted in the corner of anyway, talking to Bellatrix. Nobody would have mentioned that in the morning, for fear of being cursed. But today? There was no fanfair. Everyone was too tired for chaotic drinking and Le-Strange being missing had the Dark Lord in a particularly bad mood. The information was just accepted, and plans put into place.

Dolohov moved slightly in his tree and, as he did so, there was a nasty creak from the branch. He cast a charm quickly, to keep him from falling. He would have been tempted to complain, ask for a better mission, under ordinary circumstances. Why would he be the one to be a look out, especially as other people (cough, cough _Yaxley_ , cough, cough) were currently not doing anything in particular. Sure, his knee tendons may have been severed, but they could have just put him in the tree and left him. They could have come back for him a few hours later: it wasn’t like he could get very far without them. But, no.

No, complaining at this point would not be a good idea.

Dolohov wondered whether the Dark Lord thought he was being subtle. It was very clear to him that their ‘supreme leader’ was in the middle of a crisis over Bellatrix. Only that morning, at breakfast, Voldemort had sneakily cursed Rowle under the table for even slightly suggesting that Bellatrix might be dead. He had denied that it was him, saying that he was not a child, and he would have cursed him openly if he wanted to curse him. Most of the others had just nodded and moved on, but Dolohov had seen him do it. He had accidently made eye contact with the Dark Lord after that, and had to look down quickly to his eggs. Dolohov did not want to get cursed too.

It was kind of an open secret amongst the deatheaters that there was something weird going on between the Dark Lord and Bellatrix. Nobody was exactly sure what it was, but it was SOMETHING! Dolohov had heard the rumours, and had 100% believed the majority them at all times. Mainly because it was funny to imagine all the crazy stuff they’d come up with (like the time it had gone around that the Dark Lord was using Bellatrix as a test subject for an experimental time-travel spell) but also because they were really obvious about their…thing. He had been very worried upon waking up and seeing that he was stuck with just the two of them, but he was pleasantly surprised. Mainly surprised that he hadn’t walked in on anything scarring – if he was being completely honest.

Dolohov supposed he should be flattered that the Dark Lord trusted him enough to put him on a mission to find Bellatrix. He would not have put someone on the mission if he didn’t think that they were capable and trustworthy, after all. But Dolohov was miserable. This was terrible. He was cold, he was tired and his butt hurt, his tail bone right on the tree branch. Dolohov would much rather have been out setting Newcastle on fire with the others.

There was however a thought, niggling at the back of his mind, that Dolohov wanted to ignore. He didn’t want to think about what was happening with Bellatrix before the battle, or the consequences of that. That idea was too much for Dolohov at that moment. Maybe that was another reason that he had agreed to the mission with no outward argument.

Finally, after Dolohov’s ass had fallen asleep and his legs were filled with pins and needles, something started to happen below him.

Three pops. Three apperations. Three people appeared in the dark.

The first person was very clearly Kingsley Shaklebolt, he managed to apperate looking in Dolohov’s direction. Luckily, he didn’t see him. The second was a woman that Dolohov did not recognise, and the third, was a man but was facing away from him. Dolohov smiled; this was news. If the minister for bloody magic was there, something important was happening in the bunker.

“Minister,” the man Dolohov couldn’t see gestured for Shaklebolt to enter the dilapidated building first. He did, nodding in thanks, followed silently by the woman. The man looked around, shiftily, before stepping in, giving Dolohov a half view of his face. Some circular, wire glasses, a tuft of messy, black hair stuck out from the hoodie he wore, and a slightly crooked nose were visible in the low light. Potter. Well **now** Dolohov was sure that something important was happening down there.

After stepping deep into the rotting bandstand, there was a moment of silence before the storm. A white light seeped out from between all the exposed bricks, swirled in the ivy, shone out like a lighthouse through the hole in the roof. The shadows of the people inside were cast onto the muddy forest floor darkly, and then they weren’t. The shadows vanished at the people did, and the light swiftly after them. The forest fell back into darkness and a weight was lifted from Dolohov’s shoulders.

His body still hurt, and he was cold as shit, but now he had something to report. He scrambled down from the tree, squirrel-like, and strode towards a safe apperation point. There were things to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd have Dolohov as POV for this chapter, just to shake it up.
> 
> Also, it's been raining non-stop for the last 48 hours and my local pub got shut down for a few hours this afternoon because of a fight : welcome to Britain.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

It had been several days, and Bellatrix had come to three conclusions.

Firstly, she had to conclude that, while their security was tight, it was not tight enough. The morning after her arrival, several guards had arrived at the door. Bellatrix had regarded them coldly, seeing the towel and stack of clothing they carried. Grey-blue and white stripes – the same as the Azkaban uniforms (because of course) – had Bellatrix gritting her teeth. 

“And what is this?” She’d glared at them. The biggest guard, she was pretty certain that he was one of the assholes that had been sent to get blood from her, grunted that they were to take her to the showers. They didn’t even have shower facilities in Azkaban, an ice bath once every few months was the best one could expect. Yet another reason the death rate was so high in there. She was not pleased with this concept. The idea that three men were planning on taking her out of the cell and escorting her to an enclosed area was not something she wanted to do at all. That just seemed dangerous. Bellatrix crossed both her hands and her legs on the bed, and turned her head away. She made her opinion very clear, telling them to piss off. 

The three of them had left then, much to Bellatrix’s surprise, and returned a few minutes later with Granger in tow. 

“Do you insist on being difficult?” Granger had sighed.

“Sweetie,” Bellatrix had sneered, “this isn’t being difficult. This is righteous indignation. I can be much more difficult if I want to be.”

“Ooh look at you, using big words.” Granger rolled her eyes, and gestured for her to get up and move. Bellatrix shook her head, but, feeling sore and the prospect of a warm shower actually sounding quite nice at that point, she sighed and got up. 

She kept her eyes very open as they walked her down the corridors, Granger leading the way, two men either side of her, the other behind. The halls were deserted. All were white and non-descript, bordering on looking identical. Bellatrix wondered whether they were designed with that in mind: a maze to confuse the lab rats stuck within. There were however slight differences, which Bellatrix eagerly took note of. Left, then right, then straight down a corridor for eight doors, then left again. She ran through the order in her mind like a mantra – making sure that she would not forget it. 

The showers reminded Bellatrix of the public toilets in Hyde Park. Dingy, white and cream tiles covered the floor and walls and the showers had lime green doors on them. The strip lighting in the roof made the light patchy – bright immediately under them, then dark a little away. The roof was panelled. Squares of plasterboard held up by strips of plastic. 

“You have fifteen minutes.” Granger said, leaning against the wall. 

“How luxurious!” Bellatrix grabbed the towel and shampoo from the guard. “Make them leave.” She pointed at them.

“Trust me Le-Strange, nobody wants to look at you.”

“Send them out or I’m going to sit here and make you wait.” Bellatrix pointed down at the cold floor. Granger sighed, exasperatedly, and said fine. The guards left, standing immediately outside the door, and Bellatrix nodded, a pleased smirk on her face. 

Stepping into the shower, Bellatrix sighed into the hot water. On her tired, aching muscles it felt good. For several minutes, she just stood there, letting the water pour over her. She thought about the dark lord, and how on earth he was going to react to the bombshell she had. She had no idea, and wasn’t sure how she was going to break it to him. Bellatrix was mid-imagining him freaking out, setting stuff on fire excreta, when she looked up and saw the misplaced ceiling tile. 

Hollow blackness, a space above her, Bellatrix could see the insulation in the roof. The cubical of the shower was completely closed off, the door was the floor to the ceiling. Granger would not see her. The shower head was detachable, and, it still being on (so that Granger wouldn’t hear the difference) Bellatrix picked it up and used the head to pop the tile out ever further. The hole was big enough that she could fit though, if she took out the whole tile. Kicking herself internally, having turned the shower on meant that the tiles were too slippery for her to climb, Bellatrix made note of the hole. She would be back. Next time they brought her here, she would be gone. But, for now, she finished washing her hair and cleaning the grit out of her wounds. When she was done, she turned the shower off, hooked the head around the tile and pulled it back into the right place again. 

“Till next time.” She thought.

The second conclusion Bellatrix had come to was that Narcissa was a traitor. She had not wanted to think so, it had pained her to even consider it, but she was forced to accept it as true. 

Day two, Bellatrix had spent most of the morning fending off questions, insulting members of the order extremely personally and overall, quite enjoying herself. Sure, she would prefer not to be here, but if you are going to be imprisoned you might as well make their jobs as miserable as possible. She had just finished her lunch – a dry cheese sandwich – when Narcissa slipped in through the iron door. 

“Hello Bella.” She said. Narcissa looked like she had a harsh time since the battle. Bellatrix had seen dead people who looked healthier. Narcissa’s hair had grey roots so long she could have made a wig out of them, her skin was yellow and sallow and her eyes were bloodshot. 

“Cissa!” Bellatrix jumped up, surprised at her own excitement – and even more surprised at her relief- on seeing her sister. “Glad to see you’re ok.” Bellatrix had stepped towards her quickly and pulled her sister into a tight hug. Narcissa clung to her: Bellatrix was a little horrified. Usually, it was her that was bony and hard against a hug, but today it was Narcissa that was thin against her. 

“Likewise,” Narcissa smiled weakly, stepping back from the hug. “Although it seems like you have had a better time than I have over the past few months.”

“Are you referring to the rampant murder the prophet has been reporting on or…the other thing?” Bellatrix didn’t want to say it out loud. Narcissa nodded, as if she understood and the two of them sat down on the bed together. They looked a funny pair; Narcissa in her typical, fashionista, name brand clothes and Bellatrix in a blue/grey striped prison-dress. 

“Both, I suppose. How are you feeling?” Narcissa asked. 

“Well, fine,” Bellatrix shrugged, ignoring the feeling of nausea that had been following her around for the last week. “I’m in prison.” She pointed out, and Narcissa nodded. “How have you been? Is Draco ok?”

“Draco is doing alright, he’s breathing and not being tortured, so that’s good. Same goes for me I suppose.” Suddenly, Narcissa couldn’t look her in the eyes. This made Bellatrix very suspicious, and felt as though she needed to put up a defensive. Cissa was a bad liar, and lying in this context was not what Bellatrix needed. “Bella…I need to ask you…who is the father?”

“I am the virgin Mary.” She said, eyes narrowing. Narcissa looked pained, and pursed her lips. 

“I’m being serious Bella. Who is the Father?”

“Oh…oh I understand now…” Bellatrix laughed, unbelievable! How dare she! How could she? “They put you up to this didn’t they? Think I’ll say anything more if my little sister is the one asking the questions?” She poked Narcissa in the chest. The heartbreak on Narcissa’s face almost made Bellatrix feel bad – almost. The fury growing in her own chest was overpowering everything. Her hands shook, she was so angry. 

“Look – they have Lucius in custody. Draco is on a thin line. I - ”

“CISSA! YOU ABSOLOUTE TRAITOR!” Bellatrix roared, jumping to her feet and throwing her hands out, somewhere between disbelief and blind rage. Narcissa looked so defeated. She didn’t even bother to get up. Her shoulders crumpled and she leant back against the wall, unfazed by Bellatrix’s freakout. 

“It’s not like that Bella…please!” She argued.

“And to think I stopped the Dark Lord putting a hit on your head for treachery. ‘Cissa wouldn’t do that’ I’d said. Dolohov was very keen to kill you!” Bellatrix raved, pacing up and down the tiny room. She was incensed. She had absolutely no idea how to properly react. She did not want to hurt Narcissa, she did not want to lose another sister, but the sheer magnitude of what she had done was a bombshell to her. 

“Listen you bitch – my son is in danger – I am doing what I can to keep him alive!” Narcissa cried, finally snapping out of the stupor she was in and also jumping to her feet. Bellatrix was about to hit her when the look in her eye stopped her. She saw her little sister, scared, and just couldn’t do it. Later, Bellatrix would blame hormones for making her go soft. 

“Get out Cissa.” She hissed, quietly, glaring at her. Narcissa’s whole body seemed to slump, defeated, but she nodded and complied, silently walking over to the door. She stopped, just as her hands rested on the doorknob, before turning back to Bellatrix. There were tears in her eyes. 

“I love you; I hope you know that.” She said, barely audibly. 

“I love you too.” Bellatrix felt pinprick tears in her eyes, “Get out.” 

Bellatrix’s final conclusion was that she had to stop denying the truth. Lying on her bed, after Narcissa had left, Bellatrix was thinking. She’d been sick again, immediately after Narcissa had left actually, the aftertaste of the vomit was still in her mouth. She was pregnant. She was forty-six (she would be forty-seven before the kid would be born), knocked up by someone of whom she wasn’t sure what his actual opinion of her was – not to mention that he just so happened to be a murderous warlord - , in the middle of a war that wasn’t exactly going well and in prison. And it seemed that her family had just abandoned her. 

Fair to say, Bellatrix was not all that happy at that exact moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an exam tomorrow so...wish me luck I guess? :)


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Voldemort believed that he was doing a great job a hiding the crisis he was in the middle of having. Sure, he may have been acting more erratically than usual – but he thought that his deatheaters were too stupid to notice. Plus, he was keeping them busy. Very busy in fact. In the week it had been since the escape, they had (between them) pulled off a round total of thirty different schemes. Ranging from minor things – healing Yaxley’s legs and Macnair’s eyes – to big things, like starting a targeted campaign against major muggle population centres – the deatheaters had done a lot.

He had spent most of his days, after dispatching everyone on their respective tasks, trying to think of a solution the Bellatrix problem. As it turned out, the Umbridge woman had not been as full of shit as he had previously thought. Voldemort was sure that most of the bunkers had been abandoned. He himself had been watching a few of them, with little to report. However, the bunker Dolohov had scoped out proved to be a promising lead – more promising than the others anyway.

It took all he had not to launch an immediate attack on the bunker the night Dolohov had seen Shaklebolt and Potter entering it. That would not help. Get it wrong and they would know to move Bella, probably somewhere more secure.

It was the secret approach that was required. An infiltration, rather than a frontal attack. He knew that logically, but it did nothing to quieten the voice in his head, telling him to go in at full power, a roaring dragon burning the place from the inside out.

Oh no. No. Voldemort did not want to delve into those emotions at all! That would be very dangerous. He did not want to start questioning why he felt sick at the idea of losing Bellatrix; nor why he felt more at ease whenever she was near; nor why everything reminded him of her when she was gone. It would be earth shattering – his whole world view would be thrown into doubt – should he consider the fact that she made him feel human again, and he enjoyed it! He who had spent so long running from human emotion drawn back to it by that ridiculous woman. He couldn’t help it! She was a candle and he was the poor, stupid moth pulled towards the light. So, no. No Voldemort refused to look closer at those emotions. He would not be able to bear it.

Still, it was while he was thinking about her, in an empty kitchen still filled with the remains of the deatheaters breakfast – pigs, all of them – that he had an epiphany.

Swirling his coffee around in a slightly chipped mug, Voldemort found his mind wandering back to the night after the battle, huddled up in the remains of Le-Strange manor. Bella had gone to find blankets, and returned with two dark artifacts. He’d been focused on the voodoo doll, but that wasn’t the only thing she’d found. She had found a Hand of Glory. She had proudly held the two up. The doll was useless, a deteriorating, mouldy piece of cloth held together sadly with a few fraying stitches, no magic left within. But the hand? That was a different story all together. Dried and pickled, the hand of a hanged man stuck to a tallow candle, grey skin and wax flaking off like a disgusting form of puff pastry. Horrifying, yet a ray of hope.

Remembering it, Voldemort slammed the mug down on the table, so hard a droplet of it bounced upwards. He scowled. Fuck. How the hell had he forgotten about the damn hand? They could have used it in the Azkaban break in! Its entire purpose was to allow someone to sneak around undetected for fucks sake! Bellatrix might not have been in this mess if they had used it. Forgetting the drink, he jumped up. The problem remained, however – where was it?

He tried summoning the hand, and that didn’t do anything. Unsurprising really. A lot of dark artifacts are imbued with anti-accio charms – just to make things more difficult. The creators wouldn’t want finding one to be too easy, after all.

“Where would Bellatrix have put it?” He thought, pacing around the kitchen. Her room? She hadn’t been in there much, preferring instead to sleep with him. It might be in the wardrobe though. He could imagine it, nestled between the silk dresses, woollen socks and weaponry he knew she stored with her underwear. He wouldn’t put it past her to have plopped the hand in a shoe, fingers upwards, so it would be there to wave at anyone who opened the wardrobe door. He was taking the stairs two at a time before he really recognised that he was doing it.

He’d locked the door when they’d arrived back – the thought of any of the other’s claiming her space disgusting to him. This had forced Alecto and Dido to share, but Voldemort didn’t care about how comfortable they were when there was a war to win. He tapped the lock with the end of his wand, silently unlocking it, and stepped into the room.

She hadn’t made the bed. Bella never did, he didn’t know why he was surprised, but it was another sudden reminder that she wasn’t there. As did the room still smelling of her perfume, and the photograph of her and Narcissa (Andromeda’s face having been scratched off) on Narcissa’s first day at Hogwarts sitting on the messy dresser. Voldemort purposefully ignored all of this, and walked straight towards the wardrobe. The doors flew open and…nothing. He scanned through the whole thing, opening draws, moving shoes, even pushing the hangers aside to look in the back. It wasn’t in there.

“Dammit. Where else?”

He spent a frankly embarrassing amount of time looking around the house, unsuccessfully, for the hand before thinking of the most logical next step. In that time, Umbridge had returned from the side quest he’d sent her on and had immediately been sent back out the door, on a new mission called ‘restock the kitchen, we’re running out of beans’. She was also supposed to get cat food, because Orphne was running low. He didn’t give her any money – so she would have to get a bit creative. After tearing the house apart with nothing to show for it, Voldemort stood in the living room, arms crossed, frantically trying to think of another place to look. His eyes drifted upwards from the white shag carpet and up the pine walls to a dusty square. A dusty square where a painting had been sitting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Cygnus,” Voldemort announced his presence to the snoozing painting just as he threw open the door to the little study. Cygnus did not take kindly to this rude awakening and launched straight back into his spiel about how Voldemort was the worst thing that had happened to the house of Black in the last four hundred years. Sure. “Be quiet, this is important. Did Bellatrix have a hand of glory with her when she first reopened the house?”

“Why?”

“Because I need to know whether she brought it with her.” Voldemort rolled his eyes at the stupid question.

“But why do you need to know that?” Cygnus insisted, suspicious, eyes narrowing and he crossed his arms.

“Because, you cretin,” Voldemort hissed, “I plan on using it to rescue your daughter – so answer the question!” He knew saying it that way would convince the Black patriarch. A simple, yet beautiful plan had been brewing in his head. Snatch her out of the prison without them even noticing, and laugh as they freak out trying to find where she had gone.

“Oh, ok. No, she didn’t. She didn’t have anything with her accept her wand.” Cygnus said, quietly. Voldemort was not sure whether Cygnus believed him or not, but it didn’t really matter.

“Right, good.” Voldemort didn’t thank him and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was pissing it down in Cumbria. So much for summer weather. The rain was so thick he could not see the lake from the courtyard. Grey, swirling clouds hung low over them, fog sitting on the house heavily. The house was even more of a mess than it had been when they were there before. The holes in the roof were even more pronounced than usual, the rotten beams visible now. The chimney had lost its battle with the wind, crumbling down and leaving a gaping hole in the side of the house.

Voldemort slipped inside, out of the rain, and dried himself off with a quick charm before heading into the hall. A flock of pigeons were pecking around the room, and were spooked, flying off out of the hole where the chimney was upon seeing Voldemort. The room was filled with their frightened cooing. The couch Dolohov had been bleeding out on was growing weeds out of it, thanks to the hole and the rain. Blankets were dumped everywhere, exactly where they had been left. Clearly, nobody had been there since they had been.

And there it was. At least the day had not been wasted. The hand was dumped on the table, alongside the voodoo doll, an empty can of tinned pineapple and a rusty fork. It was lying on its back, the candle attached pointing in the direction of the door. Voldemort couldn’t help but smile slightly on seeing it. It was lighter than he had expected to be, and he passed it from one hand to the other. A weight was lifted off his chest; he would be there for her soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are going to be a little more infrequent than they have been recently, because I just can’t keep up with posting daily and my course work lol. 
> 
> In other news my LNAT exam went well I think :)


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

All good things must come to an end, and Bellatrix thought it was high time this little stint with the Order was over. It hadn’t been fun. Au revoir. À toute à l'heure! Bellatrix could not remember any more French farewells but that was beside the point. It was time to get out.

Stretching, Bellatrix was sat at the white table, not touching the gruel they had put before her. The very thought of it made her stomach churn. It did not help her mood that she was regretful of what she’d done to ‘prepare’ the night before. She had been very polite, trying to throw them off her plan. That was stupid. Bellatrix thought they might be suspicious. Instead, she should have been even bitchier than usual: they wouldn’t have questioned that. Too late now, she supposed. What’s done is done; she knew that was a quote from somewhere, she remembered the Dark Lord saying it, but from where she didn’t know.

“Not hungry?” Potter said, opening the door. He had not shaved that morning, and that left a shadow on his jaw. He looked a bit smug, and it pissed Bellatrix off.

“Not for this.” She pushed the bowl away from her, disgustedly, making a face. A little bit of the porridge oats sloshed out of the bowl onto the table. Potter apparently found this amusing and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back slightly on one foot.

“Ah well.” He shrugged. “The minister for magic wants to speak to you.”

“I’m so flattered.” Bellatrix said sarcastically, pressing her index finder to her temple, the middle finger resting on her cheek, subtly flipping him off. He seemed not to notice. Again, the door opened behind him, revealing that the guards were back. Granger was there too, in an ugly red jumper with a H on it, clearly annoyed that she had to do this. Good. Perfect opportunity.

Bellatrix had no wand, of course, but she didn’t need one here. Her wandless magic was excellent, and that wand wasn’t actually hers anyway. Suddenly, Bellatrix felt a pang of sorrow for the loss of her real wand. It had served her well. Perfectly weighted, powerful, elegant: she couldn’t have asked for a better one. The Dark Lord would disagree. ‘Nothing surpasses the Elder Wand’ he would say. Maybe in power – but her wand was hers. Nothing could compare.

“Did you end up destroying my wand after you stole it?” She asked, viciously. Narcissa had stored it for her while she was in Azkaban; Moody had taken it during a battle once in the early war (she got it back); her Hogwarts dormmate had sat on it when they were in fourth year and it had needed to be fixed: it had survived so much, only to be stolen by a teenager. Potter was confused for a second, at where the question had come from and from uncertainty of which wand she was talking about, but then shrugged again.

“No. Good luck finding it though.” He grinned, and Bellatrix scowled. “Come on.”

The guards on either side of her, Potter in front, Granger behind, the group left the room. Bellatrix’s hands in handcuffs, they moved slowly, like a royal procession. Bellatrix wondered whether, when the Dark Lord ended up in charge of the country, he’d do ‘royal drive bys’ like the muggle royalty did. Probably not.

Potter lead them in the opposite direction to the showers. Everything was still white, boring and sterile, more like an asylum or a space-ship than a prison. Yet, it was cold, the walls covered in a layer of condensation that sat on everything, a damp smell in the air. It felt like an old, uncomfortable place, the cracks were painted over, cleaned up to look modern but the actual work to update the place had not been done. The cells were the only bits of it that was new – everything else just had a new lick of paint. Bellatrix let them walk her around a corner, allowing them to think she was compliant.

It was her moment. Ducking down, Bellatrix rolled out of the reach of the guards before they knew what was happening. She turned on her tail, and punched, with a fist created with both her hands and the handcuffs, Granger hard in the face, instantly breaking her nose. Granger fell, confused, against the white wall, blood pouring from the broken bones. The guards tried to grab her once again but, with a powerful wandless magic spell, Bellatrix forced them ricocheting backwards.

Potter silently sent a spell – probably an expelliamus – after her, but it missed. Bellatrix sent another, wandless, cruitatus curse back at him, she did not stay to see whether it hit or not, but she assumed it had given the scream. Bellatrix then sprinted away down the corridor they had just walked down.

 _“Left, then right, then straight, then left.”_ She repeated over and over, trying at the same time to get the handcuffs off. She tried to melt the chains herself, with a small jet of fiendfyre but it did nothing. They were Sisyphus chains – she recognised them now. Named after the ancient Greek king who had cheated death by binding the God of Death in unbreakable chains and stuffing him in a chest, they were charmed so that the wearers was unable to take the chains off themselves. Never mind, she thought, she’d sort them out later. 

She met a couple of people as she ran, one of whom she killed instantly with a wandless killing curse that even Bellatrix was surprised that she was able to perform. She was quite pleased with herself for that. The others she had sent other, random curses at, the sole idea being that they couldn’t follow her if their eyes were bleeding, or they were twitching violently on the floor under a strong crutiatus.

Slamming her body into the toilet door, Bellatrix threw herself into the bathroom and sprinted towards the shower. Skidding to a halt, Bellatrix had an idea. She ran to each of the different showers’ doors and pulled them shut, then charmed the locks on the inside. She did this with all them, before ducking into the one she actually wanted. Let them check all the showers – let them waste time as she got away. Bellatrix locked that door behind her too, just in case the Potter and Granger caught up to her before she got out.

Looking up, she saw the misplaced ceiling tile. Bellatrix took a deep breath, and grabbed the shower head. It was hard to throw it, her hands being tied together, but she managed it. There was a large crash as the tile shattered against the shower’s head. It worked just as well; it still left enough space for her to crawl through. It was difficult for Bellatrix to climb the walls and she had to end up hooking the chain of the handcuff around the holder that the shower had had once sat in. Awkwardly, she walked backwards up the wall, her arms shaking a little as she held herself, then hooked her legs up into the hollow blackness above her. Her back popped as she did it, and she hissed in pain. Her foot hit the insulation in the roof.

Yanking hard on the chain, trying to get it off the showerhead, Bellatrix nearly slipped right back out of the hole again. Dangling dangerously, her legs were in the roof, but nothing else was, Bellatrix wriggled around. She tried to get enough momentum to swing upwards into the hole.

‘I am not as fit as I thought I was.’ She winced, managing to pull herself upwards, her stomach muscles screaming out for her to stop. Her arms were doing the same, shaking a little even though she was not holding up her entire body weight with them anymore.

“LE-STRANGE!” Potter screamed, busting through the toilet door after her, as she had her hands and feet in the roof, but her ass hanging out of the hole. It was a very uncomfortable position, but she was struggling to get a good hold on the insulation with the handcuffs and thus couldn't pull herself upward. Bellatrix thought that she would have had more time. She could hear him trying to break the other doors down in the toilets as she wriggled, trying to get the rest of her up into the crawlspace.

“Harry, she’s in this one!” She heard Granger say. ‘Bitch’, Bellatrix thought. The banging switched to the door below her. Bellatrix refused to be caught in the position she was currently in. It took all the strength she had in her core, legs and arms (she had to stop herself grunting with the effort, lest they hear her) but finally she managed to drag herself upwards and rolled sideways into the tiny crawlspace. Bellatrix had to catch her breath for a second, but as she did, she heard Granger speaking again. “Harry, use your wand!” Bellatrix was surprised to hear that he was trying to knock the door down with his shoulder – this was what happened when mudbloods went into the magical world she thought.

“Diffindo!” Harry cried, and the sound of shattering wood and plastic reached Bellatrix’s ears. Time to go. Bellatrix crawled down claustrophobic hole, away from the showers. She wasn’t sure which direction would be the best way to get out, but she thought that she might as well go with her gut, and her gut said go left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got an A- on my last English essay 😊


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

“Ready?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Voldemort, Dolohov and Umbridge were stood at the entrance to the bunker in the early morning sun. The wizened trees sent a collection of grey shadows across the clearing, like the stripes of a tiger. The dandelions blew around in the wind, their little seeds cutting loose and floating gently. Mud clung to both men’s clothes and shoes – Dolohov had warned the Dark Lord of how terribly muddy the place was and convinced him to put on boots for once. He had been reluctant to do so – it was not part of his look – but had done so anyway, because the vile feeling of mud between toes was not worth the aesthetic. The sun shone through the bunker’s entrance – mainly through the hole in the roof and in the gaps between the columns.

Begrudgingly, Voldemort had brought Umbridge with them. She was the one to explain that the bunkers existed and thus knew how to get inside. Passwords, spells, guards, excreta – she knew what they were getting into. She was stood, dressed completely inappropriately for the weather in a vile pink suit and heels, looking around, terrified. Voldemort had considered just getting the information from her and leaving her behind, but from years of experience it was better to have the knowledge on the ground during a mission, should anything go wrong they know how to get out. If she died, though, he wouldn’t be disappointed. 

The three of them stepped into the pavilion, Voldemort clutching the Hand of Glory in his own bony fingers. This was it, he thought. He was going to get her back. Glaring down at Umbridge, he hissed at her to do it, open the barrier.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bellatrix, meanwhile, was pretty sure she’d ripped the skin off her elbows and knees, but had no time to stop and check. She was crawling as fast as she could – which was pretty fast all things considered – through the ventilation shafts. It was hot. Way too hot. The metal under her was uncomfortable to touch, almost burning the skin. This did not bother Bellatrix as much as it should have done. Her tendency to boil herself during baths had strengthened her skin to this sort of thing.

Potter was behind her. Apparently, he was not used to such heat: she could hear him swearing through his teeth. Bellatrix thought that he must have his wand in his mouth, and that was what was muffling the words. She had a bit of a head start on him, and there was nothing currently being fired at her. She hazard a guess that he so far back that he couldn’t see her. Thank Merlin for small blessings, she supposed.

She could not hear Granger, and as such was left to assume that she had gone to inform the rest of the Order that Bellatrix had done a runner. That girl was a particular irritant. It was on Bellatrix’s to do list to kill the girl in the most humiliating way possible. The exact method had not been decided yet – but Bellatrix was sure she’d find inspiration at some point soon.

Every so often there was a grate that allowed Bellatrix to look down into the facility below. She nearly cackled in laugher (but managed to hold in the reflex) when she saw a group of guards sprinting down the corridor below. In the wrong direction. She applauded her own genius. The Dark Lord owed her a drink after this. Or, she remembered the surprise she had, maybe not. Not the time to think about that. Now was the time to find the nearest exit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Success! Voldemort was surprised at how easy it had been to get inside. Umbridge had whispered the password, done a complicated wand movement, and that was it. They had immediately been absorbed by the white light Dolohov had described from the minister sighting. It had been an odd sensation: somewhere between someone trying to drown you in fizzy water – his lungs filling with a popping, carbonated feeling – and being enveloped in a heated blanket.

They had been spat out into an entrance hall which somehow managed to be both immaculate and dingy at the same time. Two, bored looking, very young, aurors had greeted them. They were dead before they knew anything had happened. They hadn’t even had time to move. The pair of them were still sat, stone dead, with a mildly confused look on their faces as the group strode into the room.

“Make sure nobody knows were here, Dolohov.” Voldemort commanded. He scuttled over to the desk, and flicked his fingers though what they were looking at. There were two small receivers on the desk – one magical and one muggle – presumably linked to higher command, to give updates on the door situation. Dolohov ceased the spell that powered the magical one, and (not knowing how to turn the muggle one off) resorted to blowing the other one up with a controlled explosion. It caused a lilac fireball – it was quite beautiful.

“Ha - ” Dolohov smirked, looking at the laminated map of the facility that they had on their desk. He snatched it up. “They just have some basic security charms on the doors.”

“So much for a secure facility.” Voldemort laughed, taking the map out of Dolohov’s hands, studying it quickly. Where were the cells?

“It was assumed that nobody would get past the front entrance, my lord.” Umbridge tried to explain but this only made the situation funnier to Voldemort.

“Terrible planning.” He said, “always have at least three levels of security.” He should have done that for all of his horcruxes, he had realised on reflection. Nagini definitely should have had more layers of protection. So should the diadem. And the ring actually. Lesson learned. Next time he would do better.

He had found the cells. The only problem was that they were very deep in. And thinking that sentence had him vividly imagining Bellatrix smirking, then whispering ‘that’s what she said’ – so he decided it was time to get going.

He took the Hand of Glory from outside of his pocket, and set the candle alight. Quietly, he whispered the incantation – “Hostes - hic sumus. Vos can videre nobis.” Such a beautiful piece of dark magic, he thought. No foe could see them – so long as they stayed quiet – but, when they eventually found Bellatrix, she would be able to see them clearly. Truly, magic was a wonderful thing.

Voldemort cocked his head, and gestured silently in the direction they were to go. All the doors eventually lead to the cells, according to the map Dolohov had found, so Voldemort lead them to the door his gut told him was the right one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bellatrix had nearly lost what little porridge she had eaten. One moment she was hurrying down a particularly disused looking part of the ventilation shaft, next moment she was hanging by her shackles in a dark hallway. The movement sensitive lights flickered on as she swung, in shock for a moment. The chain had gotten hooked around a crooked bolt sticking out jaggedly from the roof. Bellatrix was pretty sure her arms were about to pop out of their sockets: she felt like a butchered pig hung up on a hook in a butcher’s shop. The actual vent – which appeared to have been brittle with age, and the screws holding it in place in the roof had just given up – clattered loudly to the linoleum floor.

Bellatrix heard Potter rounding the vents after her. Bangs and swears echoed off the metal. He had just come around the corner, being in the corridor below Bellatrix could see the dents from him moving in the roof getting closer and closer.

Fuck. What could she do? Her arms hurt, muscles feeling like they were tearing – this pain building up on top of the damage she’d already done to them getting up into the vents to begin with. He was getting closer and closer: his head was about to pop over the open side of the vent. Her eyes dropped to the floor, seeing the fallen piece of metal, and the gears in her brain started to whir. She had seconds; he was mere feet from her. 

"Wingardium Levisoa" She whispered, wriggling her hands in a vague attempt to do the correct movement for the spell, despite her hands still being tied together. The metal sheet rose in the air politely, much to her relief, and she turned it so that it would fit back inside the roof. “Confringo” she said, with a grin, shooting the plate, forcefully, back up to the shaft. The heat of the explosion melted the sides of the vent shaft, a crude version of soldering kept it in place. Bellatrix could not keep the laugh inside when she heard him cry out in pain, whether he had been hit by the plate itself or just the explosion, she didn’t know (nor care).

Feeling like she had a bit more maneuverability, she pulled herself off the hook she’d landed on, then levitated herself back up into the vents. It seemed to her that it would be a better move to stay moving in the vents rather than go down into the hallways. She would be far less likely to run into any guards in the roof after all.

Crawling, she’d been going on for several minutes, the sound of Potter slamming his body into the panel, in a desperate, and unsuccessful attempt to get it to move getting quieter behind her, when she noticed that the hallways beneath her started to look different. Dingy. Clean. The metal was less hot now, a little wet and condensation covered. There was also something different, she could feel something in the air. Bellatrix could feel a familiar presence all around her. Then, her heart soared. There was a voice, a voice she knew very well, drifting on the air a little way ahead of her. Grinning, happy as hell with the knowledge that she had not been abandoned like they had tried to say, Bellatrix scuttled forward.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Be quiet!” Voldemort hissed, as Dolohov struggled opening a door. It was the fourth door they had to break through. The ‘alohamora’ charm had not worked (to be expected of course in a secure facility) and Dolohov had started smashing his shoe into the door, trying to break the doorknob off. It crunched like the noise of a fizzy-pop can being stepped on, but it did not break the door open. Instead it just crumpled across the door opening, forcing the door shut. Rolling his eyes, Voldemort sarcastically congratulated him for his skills.

They had passed, silently, past large groups of people, unnoticed. Lots of guards, running in goosestep, were sprinting around. Many shouts and sirens had been going off as they had gotten deeper into the facility, people he recognised (and didn’t) were running about wildly, looking terrified.

Without warning, there was a bang in the roof above them. It drew all their attention, eyebrows furrowing, questioning what the hell it was. The banging stopped suddenly, and was replaced by a hot white, fiery light. It bubbled in the middle of the pane of metal for several seconds until the middle of the metal plate fell out. A horrible clanking noise came as it hit the floor next to them. Voldemort and Dolohov stepped forward slowly, Umbridge hid behind them, peering up into the darkness. 

“Well – fancy meeting you here!” Bellatrix’s head suddenly appeared through the hole, upside down, her hair falling down like an odd-looking shower curtain. She grinned widely, very pleased to see the three of them.

“Merlin!” Bellatrix had made Umbridge jump, clasping at her chest. She was very out of her element, jumping at the slightest noise. Voldemort didn’t jump, he smiled. A genuine, pleased smile. She looked healthy, untortured and relatively cheerful – which was a relief.

“Sadly not.” Bellatrix joked, “so you’ll just have to make do with me.”

“I’m happy to make that trade, are you stuck?” Voldemort said, pointing to the handcuffs that was wrapped around her wrists, that had only just come into view as she cut more out of the ceiling tile. Soon it was a big enough hole to slip through. Her prison dress was falling off, gravity pulling it down.

“Yeah – a little help?” She waved her hands in his direction. “It’s a good job you’re here now – or I would have made it out without you.” Bellatrix said cheekily.

“I don’t doubt it, Bella.” He said, rolling his eyes affectionately, and pressed his wand to the chain, causing it to fall apart and disintegrate. She thanked him, and rubbed her wrists with the other hand where the handcuffs had been tight against her skin. “Need help getting down? Or can you do it yourself?”

“See, totally would, but I’m pretty sure I have broken my arms getting up here…so…” She shrugged, flippantly. Voldemort raised an eyebrow, but still reached up, arms open, to help her down. Bellatrix scooted down the rest of the crawlspace and slipped perfectly into his arms. One arm under her legs, the other on her back. Bellatrix’s arms wrapped snugly around his neck. They were face to face for a moment, exchanging a _‘I’m glad you’re ok’_ look between them. Voldemort was so happy to see her, not only see her but felt her, warm and real in his arms, he would have kissed her right there. Had Dolohov and Umbridge not been stood directly behind him he absolutely would have done.

There was a distant shout of someone else in the roof vent. “Also, I may have made a mess – so we need to go!” Bellatrix said, pointing back up into the hole, a smirk on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one lol.   
> I saw this year’s first Christmas advert last night, which is terrifying.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

“For fucks sake Bellatrix!” Voldemort said exasperatedly. The parameters for the Hand of Glory were very simple. Be quiet, move slowly, don’t draw attention to yourself – and then nobody would be able to see you. Bellatrix was well aware of this. This knowledge did not stop her from firing a crutiatus curse at Hermione Granger when the girl, leading a troop of guards around the corner, appeared. It broke the charm, and everyone was very surprised to see the Dark Lord himself, along with Bellatrix, Dolohov and a cowering, weeping mess that turned out to be Umbridge standing in their supposedly secret bunker.

“Look – I needed to!” Bellatrix explained, putting her arms out as she did, “She’s on my hit list.” She then sent another curse hurtling towards Granger, which she deflected.

“Then kill her – don’t play with her!” Voldemort pointed out the flaw in her logic, whilst sending random killing curses into the sea of guards that was pouring from around the corner. Dolohov had also gotten in on the fight, bloodlust setting his eyes alight. Umbridge meanwhile was covering her head with her arms, hiding behind them. 

“Gladly!” Bellatrix said giddily, shooting off a killing curse in the girl’s direction. Unfortunately, she missed, but it was only at that point that Voldemort noticed that she did not have her wand – and was quite impressed with the power it took for her to use unforgivables without one. Dolohov used a silent curse that barrelled though the group of Order guards like a torpedo through shallow water. Body parts severed and flew everywhere, as did the blood. “Nice one!” Bellatrix cried out, impressed.

Despite the wilful carnage the three of them were inflicting, it seemed as though there was an endless supply of guards streaming from deep inside the base. All looked young. Child soldiers – and they said he was evil, Voldemort thought. Sensing that they would soon be overwhelmed, Voldemort sent a torrent of fiendfyre at the guards, creating a wall of fiery snakes between them and the members of the Order. The screams of the guards filled the entire bunker, along with the sizzle of burning flesh. It smelt horrible: an awful, acrid odour.

Voldemort grabbed Bellatrix’s wrist and dragged her back, nodding to Dolohov and Umbridge that it was time to escape. He knew Bella would want to continue the fight she’d started, but he could not risk her getting captured again.

“Time to go, I think.” He said. She nodded reluctantly, saying ‘I suppose so’. He let go of her, and followed the others down the hallway. Dolohov sprinted ahead of them, dragging Umbridge behind him, her little legs not keeping up very well, while she was crying that they were going to die. Her whimpering combined with the screams of the burning soldiers and the shouts of their commanders, telling the other soldiers to go around the other way. What beautiful serenade.

“You know what, my lord” Bellatrix said, conversationally, to Voldemort as they left, “If my career as a deatheater doesn’t work out I think I’d be a great acrobat.” He laughed genuinely, thinking that came out of nowhere. She, of course, was thinking of the way she had gotten into the vents, but he had no way of knowing this.

“I do not pay you – this is not a career.” He pointed out, quite jovially. He stopped to blockade a door, to give them more time should they manage to bust through the fiendfyre. Bellatrix stopped too, waiting for him. She was just so happy to see him, so relieved. She wanted so desperately to throw herself into his arms and just never leave.

“Maybe if you made it one, you’d get more deatheaters joining up.” Bellatrix pushed her hair back over her shoulder, to get it out of her mouth. It needed a wash – her hair tasted terrible.

“Substantial pay check, lots of holidays, all that.” Voldemort responded, with a smirk. He finished up, turning back to her. His eyes took her in, from head to toe, and he breathed out relaxed. Voldemort was pleased to see that she looked unharmed. Despite the danger they were in at that moment, deep in the hornet’s nest, there was such a weight lifted from his shoulders.

“Yeah very enticing.” She said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“I’ve missed you.” He said suddenly, looking her in the eyes. They were a few feet away from each other, and Bellatrix was taken aback. She had not expected that he would be so open about it – she didn't think he would say it in so many words. Her heart soared.

“Ditto, my lord, ditto.” She spoke very softly, like the simple, four words were a declaration of love.

“Oh, how very touching – do you two need a room?” A voice spat, from behind Bellatrix. She spun around, confused as to how she’d missed his entrance. Potter. He was covered in soot, glasses dirty and hair even more of a mess than usual. He clutched his wand like it was a dagger, and his lip was curled up in a snarl.

He was, despite how ready for a fight he looked, alone. Dolohov and Umbridge would be on the other side of him, Voldemort and Bellatrix between Potter and his friends. Surrounded, alone, outclassed; what a wonderfully Gryffindor way to die – Bellatrix thought.

Voldemort thought the same. He looked up from Bella and smirked devilishly, seeing such easy prey. Bellatrix was electric.

“Potter, it seems as though you are purposefully looking for death.” He walked forward, flicking the Elder wand backwards and forwards threateningly. Potter, to his credit, did not flinch, and stared them both down. Voldemort reached into his robes, retrieving an elegant knife and, not looking at her, handed the knife to Bellatrix. She eagerly accepted it, passing the blade from one hand to the other, getting a feel for it. She grinned madly.

“For yours, yes.” Potter retorted.

“Ooh! Kitty’s got claws!” Bellatrix taunted. She stepped forward and stood at Voldemort’s left.

“Are you sure **you** should be getting involved in such violence?” Potter looked at her pointedly. The implication was not lost on her and she bared her teeth. Voldemort was confused, but decided to ask Bellatrix about it later, because his bloodlust was becoming overpowering. He could end this now. Break the prophecy, cut off their figurehead, leave them floundering. Get Bella back and kill Potter? That would be the perfect end to a perfect day.

Potter fired first, a mere expelliamus, that Voldemort deflected lazily, with such ease that he could have merely been batting away a fly. He exuded power, and Bellatrix thought he was beautiful. The silent curse Voldemort threw Potter’s way was a bolt of magenta lightning, forking and splintering with the sheer force of its casting. Bellatrix had seen him cast this spell before, and jumped backwards to avoid any stray edges. It was not a killing curse – he wanted to make this pain last.

Potter was taken by surprise and dived out of the way just too late. A curse meant for his chest instead hit his arm. It The curse cut through his flesh so cleanly it looked as though it has been measured beforehand. A perfectly straight line etched itself into Potter’s arm – just above the elbow – getting deeper and deeper each second. Blood, muscle, bone. The snapping of tendons. The howls of pain – like a wounded bear – ricocheting off the metal walls. The lower part of his arm fell to the floor with a hard, wet clunk. Inanimate where there was once life, Potter stared at it, gawking in disbelief. He did not fall. He pressed his body up against the wall, clutching at his stump where his arm had just been. The wound was a faucet, blood poured between his fingers.

It took Bellatrix’s breath away. She stepped forwards again, eyes wide, mouth agape. Her shoes, white, cotton, prison shoes, were quickly being soaked with his blood. The knife in her hands twitched, itching to get in his skin.

“Would you like to do the honours, Bella?” Voldemort asked, seeing her excitement. She knew exactly what he meant. He wanted her to have some fun – not to kill him, for that was for Voldemort and Voldemort alone – but he did not object to her playing a part. She thanked him, giddily, and skilfully tested the weight of the knife. She found the perfect angle, and threw it. The air whistled as it sliced through it. Precise, it sunk deep into his shoulder, that he had turned to face her and braced for impact. He screamed, the force of the knife finally being the thing to knock him down. 

“What a pitiful end, Potter.” Voldemort hissed, stepping forward, ready to prod him with his foot, hold him down as he killed him.

He did not get the chance to. From behind them there was an explosion and a shriek, which distracted both Bellatrix and Voldemort momentarily. Ginny Weasley had appeared on the other side of the blocked door. She slammed her body against it, face seen through the glass part of the door, bashing her fists against the door. Hair, red and wild, covering half of her face, but the shrieks she made were very real. So were the tears. She screamed Harry’s name and the sound of misery and despair in her voice made Bellatrix laugh.

It was mere seconds that they were distracted, but by the time they had turned around, Potter was gone. All that remained of him was a trail of blood, a hand and a winging, open vent.

“Bastard.” Bellatrix sighed, disappointed.

Voldemort was incensed, hands shaking he was so angry that the boy had once again slipped through his fingers. He stormed over to the hole now presented in the ceiling and, in a state of rage, pressed the wand to the swinging vent. Venomously, he spat out the fiendfyre curse. He did not expect it to cause much pain, he believed Potter was back with the Order on the other side of the door now. This curse was purely to release the anger.

“My Lord!” Bellatrix grabbed his arm forcefully, pulling his attention back to her. “We need to leave now.” Indeed they did. Their escape window was narrowing, the Order was about to break through the door and Potter was gone. Through the window, they could see the Order preparing to ram the door down. Putting aside the anger, and instead decided to focus on the fact that Bella was back, and safe, Voldemort nodded, and the two of them fled.

They jumped into the escape shaft the same moment that the Order broke through the door. Bella screamed at Umbridge to get them out there that instant. Umbridge was flailing, flustered from the attention but did manage to do as she was told. The four of them were cloaked in the white, clunky light and were spirited out of the bunker, in the blink on an eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went into college today and it was so cinematic on the bus this morning. It was all misty, the trees all red and orange, there was sheep everywhere and I was listening to ‘Whippin’ Piccadilly’ by Gomez. I felt like I was in a movie!


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bellatrix stumbled as they apparated. Exploding with a pop into the back alley behind the Naples flat, she fell forward a little, the force of the magic not doing her slightly weakened legs any favours. She managed to fall straight into Voldemort, just as he appeared from the aether. It was a lucky thing – if he was not there she would have fallen straight into a dustbin. His reaction was immediate. Deftly, he caught her under her arms; her legs buckled as he supported her and her legs swung. He looked down at her with a slight smile.

“Enjoying yourself?” He asked.

“Indeed, my lord.” She smirked; eyebrows raised. He stood her up, quickly, as Dolohov and Umbridge appeared next to them.

Bellatrix gulped down fresh air like it was going out of fashion. She could smell the rain that had just blown through on the air and feel the mugginess in the air that comes with it, hear the beep of the vespas on the street. It tasted like freedom, and she could not wipe the beaming smile from her face.

Hyperventilating, Umbridge pressed herself up against the wall. She was muttering something about how she thought they were all going to die (it was difficult to understand what was being said between the tears and ragged breaths), pressing her hands to her face. Her shoulders shook. Voldemort rolled his eyes, Dolohov walked off to open the front door, and Bellatrix kicked her.

“Come on Delores, you’re fine, have a drink.” Bellatrix said, nudging her off the wall.

“You know her?” Voldemort asked, turning his head to the side in surprise.

“We were in the same dorm at Hogwarts.” Bellatrix explained, then she kicked Umbridge again, trying to get a better reaction from her. “I was a terrible dormmate, wasn’t I?” She grinned. Umbridge nodded, sniffing, gulping, trying to laugh and wiping her eyes.

“I remember you setting my bed on fire in sixth year.” She squeaked.

“Yeah, that was funny. You shrieked like a piglet!”

“Memory lane.” Voldemort said dryly, then suggested that Umbridge go clean herself up. She needed no further prodding and ran off, flustered, into the house. He waited till she was gone before turning to Bellatrix again. “Are you alright?” He asked, simply.

“Much better now I’m back with you my Lord.” Bellatrix said warmly, “can’t complain too much, they have improved their cells since last time - ”

“But you’re not hurt?” He cut in, taking her hands in his tightly and looking down seriously at her.

“Not from them, bit sore from the escape, I have a few scrapes and things, nothing big. Although a cup of tea would be great!”

“I think I can make that happen.” He let out a slight laugh, then pulled her into a tight embrace. She clung to his robes, melting into the warmth and firmness of him, him really being there. The fear of the last week and a half bubbling away. He held her close, so tightly that he would not be able to slip through his fingers again. She was free. She was safe, and Voldemort was not going to let her go again. “I’m sorry.” He spoke softly, so quietly that had Bellatrix been any further away from him she would not have heard it. However, she did. She looked up at him suddenly, surprised that he’d said as much. He did not apologise lightly. “Really, I am sorry Bella.”

“You don’t need to apologise, my Lord,” Bella matched his tone, “I said that I couldn’t promise not to do anything stupid.” She stood up on her tip toes and pressed a light kiss to his lips. Not a particularly passionate kiss, quite chaste actually, but it was not meant to be. It was a welcome home. It was a thank you for coming to my aid. It was an ‘I love you’ without words. Breaking apart, she smiled.

“You mentioned tea?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Quite the storyteller, Bellatrix had sat at the head of the table, a cup of tea in one hand gesticulating with the other, as she told the tale of her imprisonment and daring escape. Going into every, gory detail – besides the small detail that she was currently pregnant, that was a story for a different time – she had everyone’s attention. Alecto had clutched at a gin, mesmerised. Macnair and Yaxley were leaning closer to her across the table, they would deny that they found the story interesting but their body language said otherwise. Rookwood and Dido were sharing a loveseat and they had made smart arse comments every so often. Voldemort had sat at the other end of the table, a glass of red wine (that he had not touched a drop of as he was too interested in what Bellatrix was saying) sitting on the table in front of him. He had leant back, legs crossed at the knee, leaning with his elbow on the table. He had been enraptured by her. She was joyful, funny, still in her prison garb but wearing it like it was a royal robe.

Her story ended and, as dramatically as she could, she gave a little bow before excusing herself. Dolohov had invited her to come out with the group for a drink, as a little celebration, but she had refused. Bellatrix had claimed that she was far too tired, and was going to have a shower then go to bed. The deatheaters did not notice, but Bellatrix made eye contact with Voldemort across the table, an invitation for a talk once the rabble had left. Dolohov did not bother to invite Voldemort out with them, he knew that the answer would be no. It always was when Bellatrix was not coming with them.

Bellatrix went upstairs before they left. She wanted to change out of her prison gear before properly talking with the Dark Lord. She had kicked off her blood-soaked shoes immediately upon entering the house, and as such plodded along barefoot on the shiny, mahogany floor. Every painting, photograph, curtain and rug seemed so much better to her as she passed. More luxurious. More comfortable. More beautiful.

The bedroom door shut with a click. Exactly how she left it, Bellatrix reached for a dress she’d left hanging on the back of the door. It didn’t matter what clothes she wore, just that she got out of the prison dress. She stood before the mirror, eyes surveying herself. She looked less emaciated than she had since getting out of Azkaban, healthy even. Purple bruises dotted her, her knees and elbows were ripped to shreds, there was a small burn on her cheek; minor injuries covered her like a mosaic.

It was nothing however, compared to her stomach. Bellatrix had not noticed it before but her stomach was not flat anymore. there was the slightest convex curve to her middle now – it would have been unnoticeable to anyone else, but to Bellatrix it was shattering. It was real. It was not a bizarre dream (she did not want to call it a nightmare) brought about through captivity, it was having a real affect on her.

Changing into the black, silk dress, Bellatrix’s muscles ached terribly. As she reached up, to put the dress over her head, she groaned in pain, and cursed the order for doing this to her. Muscle aches would heal of course, but it did not make them any less painful in the moment. The dress covered the slight changes. Nobody would know, nobody would even guess.

Her mind whirred. She was staring at her own reflection when she realised that she actually needed to talk to the Dark Lord. He needed to be told about…the situation. Bellatrix had gotten used to just referring to it as ‘the situation’ rather than the pregnancy. She realised that she should stop doing that – they needed to talk about it. It had to be the Dark Lord’s. There was literally no other option. He needed to know: they needed to decide what to do. She felt bile rising in her throat as she tried to decide how to start. How does one go about even approaching that? How could she tell someone that had never expressed any interest in parenthood, that was temperamental at the best of times, that she was pregnant? Bellatrix was sure that he would not be happy about it. His exact reaction she was having trouble imagining because it would be just too wild that this could have happened in the first place.

There was little time for her to consider it, as, in the same instant, the front door banged shut loudly and there was a knock on her bedroom door. The sound made her jump. Voldemort opened it and gestured for her to follow him, silently. Slipping after him, Bellatrix bit her lip – her mind racing as to how she would tell him that she was expecting. They were expecting. Oh Merlin – she thought. Voldemort led her quietly only a few doors down the hall and into the bedroom they had been sharing.

“You don’t have a wand, do you?” Voldemort said, as she shut the door. Bellatrix’s hands shook, she moved slowly as a result, she did not know what he was about to do, but her mind was too preoccupied to think about it too deeply. He was not facing her, instead rooting around in the top draw of the bedside table. She was leaning against the door, hands behind her back, shoulders and head pressed against the wood. Bellatrix told herself she had to tell him now, but she had to do it right.

“Unfortunately, no.” Bellatrix bit her lower lip nervously, continuing the current conversation because she didn’t know how to bring it up naturally. It wasn’t like she could just say it like a comment on the weather. This was something than needed to be built up to. For better or worse. Bellatrix wasn’t sure whether he’d react better if she told him quickly, ripping off the plaster-style, or eased into it. He’d used both methods when breaking bad news to her in the past. Voldemort got whatever it was he was looking for out of the draw and held it in his hands, looking down at it for a second. This peeked Bellatrix’s curiosity, and she moved slightly off the door to get a better look at what was in his hands.

“Well, here. Have this one.” He turned back. What Bellatrix saw in his hands took her breath away. Light coloured wood, yew wood to be specific, 13½ inches long and affixed with a phoenix feather core; he was offering her his original wand.

“Oh merlin? Are you serious?” She breathed, hand to her mouth, shocked, very appreciative, then terrified. Terrified because this was one of the most considerate, loveliest things he had ever done for her. She was going to destroy that. He had made a step towards closeness and the news she had was going to push him away again. She knew it – she just knew it! There was a grief in her breast. A grief for the loss of what she was about to shatter. 

“No, I’m handing it you for no reason.” He said sarcastically, extending his arm and passing the beautiful wand to her. She took it from him and held it in her wand hand shakily. It was longer than her wand, narrower, yet just as elegant and powerful. She felt the core of the wand deciding whether it would stoop to work for her. It would never work as well for her as it did for him, of course, but wands would work for someone they deemed worthy to use them. There were tears in her eyes as the wand approved.

“Thank you!” She threw her arms around him, both because she was really overwhelmed with what he had just entrusted her with and because she did not want him to see how scared she was right at that moment. She needed to psyche herself up to tell him, the knot in her stomach was not going away (actually it was getting worse) and Bellatrix was trying not to chicken out. She was not a coward. She was not going to start being one now. He held her tightly, while her arms were around his neck his wrapped around her waist.

“You’re the only person I’d trust with it.” He said into her hair, a tone in his voice that Bellatrix had rarely heard from him.

“I…I need to tell you something.” Bellatrix heard herself saying, wishing immediately that she could take the worlds and swallow them back again. Stupid. She should not have said it like that – that made it sound so much more sinister. He tensed and she winced, knowing that there was no going back from this now.

“That doesn’t sound good.” His voice grew cold, a steel darkness there, and he stepped back from her. Narrowed eyes, he searched her face to see what she meant.

“Well…I’m not sure whether it is or it isn’t…Good, I mean.” Bellatrix stammered quickly, trying to express in not so many words, that she had not done anything purposefully to hurt him. She had not considered whether it was good or not actually. There had not been time – her mind had been entirely filled with plans for escape. When she had thought about it, it had been in relation to how sick she’d felt, or how worried she was about his reaction. It had not really crossed her mind that there was an actual baby at the end of the nine months if she was to let it continue naturally. She had blocked it out, repressed it, thought about other things. The actual magnitude of what was going on was only just hitting her, and Bellatrix was scared.

Behind the locked door came a flurry of banging and shouting. The slam of a door and the shrill laughter of a clearly extremely drunk Alecto. It sounded as though there had been a scrap, and someone had returned to the house. Voldemort shook his head and sighed.

“Should we find somewhere quiet to talk about whatever it is? Some of them are still here.”

“I think that would be a good idea, yeah.” Bellatrix nodded, not looking him in the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half term holidays begin today :)


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

They apparated to the other side of the bay. The ominous shadow of the volcano loomed over the city below. Golden light, dotted every so often with bright white ones, or tinged blue, showed each inhabited building in the city. It was dark; the sun had set quite a while ago, and the royal blue of the sky was tinged with a yellow hue from the electric lights. The sea was a darker blue still. Ink. The tops of the waves were the only parts of it catching the light, the rest was as black as pitch.

Standing in a dark vineyard, Bellatrix’s finger’s clutched at the wires holding up the nearest vines. The wide leaves caught in her hair, but she did not bat them away. Instead her eyes followed the Dark Lord as he weaved an enchantment around the area. His wand glowed as deep scarlet, setting his features alight. He looked as though he was staring down a fire. She could not see his eyes, nor the lower part of his face, just the pale outline of forehead, cheekbones and the empty space where his nose had once been. He looked terrifying, and Bellatrix was afraid.

“So, what is it?” He turned to her, once the charm was in place. It fell very dark. Nobody would hear them; nobody could see them. They could talk freely, but the words caught in her throat.

“um, well…”

“We haven’t got all night Bella.” Voldemort snapped, clearly quite worried about what she was about to say and lashing out because of it. Bellatrix couldn’t imagine what he thought, and was a bit angered that he would not just let her speak. That anger loosened her tongue.

“Don’t be an ass. This is difficult to say.” She retorted, letting go of the wire and putting her hands on her hips. He said nothing, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow, telling her silently to get on with it. Bellatrix remembered hearing once that a girl she’d been at Hogwarts with had gotten pregnant out of wedlock, and told her parents (and the father) that she was dying. When they were weeping messes, she’d told them not to worry, it wasn’t that bad, she was just pregnant. Apparently, they had not taken it well, and had been even more angry than they would have been otherwise. Bellatrix decided not to do that. She sighed.

“Right – ok. I’m pregnant.”

“What?” Voldemort blinked. She repeated.

“There is a baby growing inside of me.” Bellatrix was not sure what he was thinking. His face betrayed nothing.

“There is?” She could not see his eyes, but she could feel them looking her up and down. She shifted uncomfortably under his stare.

“Yes.” Bellatrix nodded. “Seven weeks pregnant, to be precise.”

“Seven weeks…?” Was he trying to think of which time did it, Bellatrix wondered? She had. She had not been able to work it out.

“Yep. It is yours before you say anything.” She didn’t think that he was questioning that, but had to get it out there. The short answers were driving her mad. Voldemort’s face was a mask, completely unreadable expression plastered over it. She looked to him, imploringly, her eyes begging him to say something. Anything? Anything that was not monosyllabic.

“Mine?”

“Please just say something instead of parroting me!” She cried out, exacerbated. There was a beat of silence. Only the sound of the cicadas in the trees could be heard as Bellatrix looked up at him, pleading with him to just say something. Her heart broke when he started laughing.

Voldemort turned away from her, putting his hands on his head, then back again, head thrown back in bitter laughter. He dragged his hands over his face, ends of his fingers resting on his eyebrows for a second before taking them away. Bellatrix was rooted to the spot, not seeing what was funny, watching him. She watched him stop laughing, and his face fall when he saw the look of grief on her face.

“Oh fuck, you aren’t joking, are you?”

“No. No I am not joking.” Bellatrix said darkly, and sucked her teeth.

“No offence.” He began, a phrase which always precedes something offensive, “but aren’t you a bit old?” His left hand lifted and pointed towards her. His weight all rested on his right leg. Bellatrix thought that, in the darkness, he looked like he was disgusted with her. That thought made her extremely angry.

“Thanks.” She spat.

“It’s not an insult Bella, dear,” the sneer in his voice on ‘dear’ felt like a slap in the face, “age means you have survived.” There was a different emotion, something deeper, in his voice then but Bellatrix didn’t know what to call it. And, besides, she was more focused on the perceived slight.

“It is an insult when I am pregnant with your child.” Bellatrix pointed out. He stopped the fidgeting movements then, pressed his fingers to where the bridge of his nose had once been and sighed deeply.

“Are you completely sure?” Voldemort said, much more softly. Bellatrix nodded. Her fingers knotted themselves into her hair, holding on to the ends and tugging on it slightly. It was a comforting measure, one she needed desperately right now. She nodded. She was very sure.

“They did a blood test on me. It was supposed to say whether or not I was allergic to veritiserum and it came back saying this…” There were tears in her eyes now, a horrible tightness in her throat. It all came pouring out, the story and the tears. She could not stop them. “I didn’t believe it…I got them to give me another test…I’ve been feeling so sick…my boobs hurt…I’m so tired…I…I…”

“Bella.” He stepped towards her, speaking softly and with his arms open a little bit as if he was about to take her into his arms, but she stepped back away from him.

“…my family is all gone…every single one of them, they’re all dead or traitors! I’m the only one left!” She wept. Bellatrix pressed her back up against the nearest vine pole. Her whole body shook with the sobs that racked her frame. She was despairing; it felt to Bellatrix like she had nobody left in the world. He wasn’t going to help her. Her family wasn’t going to help her. Her family had abandoned her and now she felt like he was abandoning her too. “It’s only me. And you’re right! I’m too old! I’m old, and on my own.” She sank to the floor, her knees sliding up to her chin and she pressed her face into the indent between them. Tears streamed freely. To her surprise, he sat down on the ground next to her.

“You are not on your own Bella. You are not on your own.” He said seriously, trying to get through to her, trying to tell her that he was supportive of her but she didn’t want to hear it. She looked up from her knees to look him dead in the eyes, the despair in her face painful for him to see.

“My parents are dead! My sisters have BOTH betrayed me! My cousins are dead and traitors. Niece and nephew? Neither of them knew me to begin with! My entire extended family disowned me to save their skins after the first war!” Bellatrix half sobbed, half raged. Raged against the injustice of it all.

“You have the deatheaters and - ” She cut him off.

“Oh yeah – those fuckers! Let’s think what they’ll say! ‘ _See, Yaxley, I told you she was the Dark Lord’s whore! You owe me fifty galleons_.’” She mimicked them. “You’ve heard their rumours!” Bellatrix spat viciously. He could not deny it. Voldemort had heard them – he had defended her against them on many an occasion, perhaps too much therefore strengthening the talk. Making the beast stronger.

“Rumours without substance Bella and you know it!”

“Do I?”

“Yes!” He cried out, taking her hands in his and pulling her to face him. “You have never been ‘the dark lord’s whore’ – you are the best warrior I’ve ever seen in battle, one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever had the pleasure of working alongside and anyone who says that you haven’t earned your place in the high ranks is a jealous fool. You, Bellatrix, are one of very few people I have ever met that I actually enjoy the company of, in any capacity. I could sit in a room with you, not speaking, and still enjoy that time because just being around you is enough.”

Her jaw fell open. She had no idea how to respond to that. She searched his face to see if there was any indication that he was lying to her, but she saw nothing there. Nothing but truth. He pulled her into a tight embrace then, to strengthen her belief in him. Shaking like a leaf in his arms, it took Bellatrix a couple of seconds to reciprocate, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning her head on to his. Her tears had not stopped, but the had slowed, dawdling on their journey down reddened cheeks.

“You are not on your own, Bella. I am here with you.” He said into her ear. “Whatever you want to do with this baby, I will be there to support you. If you want to get rid of it, I will be there to help you, if you want to keep it you can be damned sure that I will be there for both of you. You are not alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a rollercoaster. 
> 
> (not sure if Voldemort is too OOC here but meh)


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok - before this starts – Voldemort is going to be thinking about abortion and miscarriage here, nothing graphic but if that’s not your gig you might want to skip this chapter 😊

Despite what he had told Bellatrix, Voldemort was about ready to fall to pieces. He was stood in his ensuite bathroom, pressing his hands to the side of the sink and staring into the mirror. He looked rough. More rough than usual. It was early in the morning, the sunrise just peaking over the horizon. He had not slept very well at all, maybe an hour or two at most; he had been lying there awake, thinking.

Bellatrix had been exhausted and had passed out quite quickly, despite how stressed she had been beforehand. He couldn’t blame her; she’d escaped a cell, had a battle, dealt with the rest of the deatheaters and had to explain…the situation…to him. She had a right to be tired. Voldemort had laid next to her, listening to her breathe slowly, as he stared up at the ceiling. The same train of thought had been revolving over and over again in his mind. They were so fucked.

He would be a terrible father – he knew that. He would have no idea how to be a father, no idea how to begin. As a child, there was not a single male role model in his life. Wools Orphanage did not have any male staff during his time there, just Mrs Cole and an ever-changing merry-go-round of young women who came and went. And Mrs Cole wasn’t particularly parental in any case, so it wasn’t like he could use her as an example either. Getting to Hogwarts gave him male authority figures but they were teachers, not parents and he was too guarded by that time to let any of them near him. There was Borgin and Burke he supposed, but again, they were his employers and he was an adult when he worked there, a very young adult, true, but an adult nevertheless. He had no experience of what fatherhood was, nobody to emulate, no point of reference.

There was one thought however that refused to leave his brain. He would not repeat the mistakes his actual father made. He would not leave Bellatrix to deal with it on her own. He would not allow Bellatrix to die and leave the kid in a random orphanage, cold and unloved for their entire childhood. It was not for a selfless reason that he had decided this, not for the benefit of the child itself: he had killed his father. History would not repeat itself. He would not become his father in that situation. He would never allow that to happen.

Lying there in the dark, Voldemort found himself imagining how powerful a child of him and Bellatrix would be. The blood of the House of Slytherin and the House of Black mixed together? A child of the Dark Lord and his best lieutenant? That child would be unstoppable. So long as he was able to avoid being a terrible father, which he did not think he would be able to do, that child would be an asset. A brilliant warrior, a dark sorcerer perhaps stronger than himself, but raised by Bella who would raise them to be as loyal as her. But that was if he could be a good father. If not, there would be a serious problem.

The thought continued now as he stood at the mirror. Toothbrush in hand, but not yet used, he considered the options before them. There really was only two; keep or abort. Adoption was not an option; that would come back to bite them in the ass, either the Order would find the kid and use them against him or the kid would turn up on their own, the way he did with his father, years later, angry and vengeful. So, to keep or not to keep. Ultimately, it was up to Bellatrix. He would not feel comfortable forcing such a decision onto her. Starting to scrub his teeth, he was thinking of all the ways either option could go wrong.

It could, however, go right and that was an option he felt that he dare not consider. He did anyway. His mind would not let him ignore that possibility. It was the optimist in him, the ambitious part of him that made him want to be the best. The part of him that demanded excellence in him. That part whispered softly in the back of his mind that this was an opportunity. An opportunity that should be seized.

He spat out the toothpaste after he had finished and looked up again back in the mirror. He could see Bellatrix through the open door. Still asleep, she was curled up on her side facing towards the bathroom. Swallowed in blankets, he could only see her face, part of her leg that was dangling from the bed, and her right hand on the pillow next to her face. She was frowning in her sleep, eyebrows scrunched slightly, like she was deep in concentration. In the grey light, tinged with pink from the rosy sunrise, she looked like the subject of a painting. Voldemort remembered seeing one, possibly in Malfoy manor actually, of a woman sleeping on the balcony of a Mediterranean house, that reminded him of her. But the woman in that painting looked completely carefree, and even in sleep Bellatrix looked anything but.

Maybe it would be better if she lost it. Nature just taking its course, they would not have to make a decision, or take action, and it would have been sorted. He knew that him thinking that was disgusting – even for him that was a terrible thing to think, but the thought was there. She’d lost one before, back in the ‘70’s. She’d been young and fit then, being older now made it much more likely. It wasn’t his last time; she and Rodolphus had both been distraught over it. The memory of the two of them walking into the first meeting after loosing it, the dead look in Rodolphus’ eyes, how quiet and subdued the normally excitable Bellatrix was, the wide, respectful distance everyone kept from them made Voldemort discard the thought completely. It would destroy her if it happened again. Seeing how volatile she had been last night; he was sure of that. So, he quickly packed that idea away into the dark recesses of his mind.

She muttered something incomprehensible in her sleep, and flipped over onto her back, mouth slightly open. He hoped that she was having nice dreams, but he thought that was a probably unlikely. She did not look very happy at all.

Voldemort stepped out of the bathroom, pulling the string to shut the light off, and back onto the fluffy carpet. It felt better than the cold tiles that he had been stood on. He did not go back to bed, he’d spent too long there without sleeping, so instead he stepped out onto the balcony. It was still warm, August in the Mediterranean would do that, and the sun was beautiful as it rose over the bay. He could see the vineyard they’d been stood in last night, tiny in the distance, and sighed. He just couldn’t believe that it was actually happening.

Voldemort had watched Bellatrix closely as she’d gotten ready for bed the night before, eyes following her every move. He had expected to have a much more pleasurable reason to watch her (and much more than that) after getting out of the prison, but fate it seemed had other plans. He had healed the injuries she’d sustained, fingers softly brushing over fresh skin and whispering comforts. The comforts were lies ‘everything will be fine’, ‘we will be able to deal with this’, ‘you have no reason to worry’. Inside he had been terrified. He hoped that it hadn’t shown on his face. She hadn’t looked different yet – she didn’t look pregnant to him – which made it even harder to realise that it was actually happening.

“You’re up early.” He heard a hiss which made him jump. It was not a person however, just Orphne. The chimera had grown significantly since they had bought her. Nowhere near the size that she would be as an adult, but about the size of a large dog. Orphne had been in the garden and, upon seeing him, had decided to fly up and talk, the past few weeks having strengthened her wings.

“So are you.” He replied, sitting down in an armchair he had dragged out there a few weeks before, magic had protected it from the rain.

“Is Bella ok?” Orphne asked, landing on the balcony edge, turning both her goat and lion heads to the side, the way cats are wont to do. The snake head shot up and looked at him with urgency. Voldemort nodded and leant back in the chair, crossing his legs at the knee.

“Tell me, did you know your parents?” He asked the creature. She nodded, grinning like a jack o’ lantern with the lion head, and went on to describe them. It did not correlate well to Voldemort’s situation. Somehow ‘my mother and father performed stunts to get sheep from the villagers for us to eat’ was not very relevant. “If your parents loved you so much, how did you end up in that shop?”

“Hunters snapped me out of the nest.” Orphne hissed sadly, scratching her neck with her claws. “I don’t remember what happened next. I woke up in a cage.” She did the chimera equivalent of a shrug.

“That’s not good.” Voldemort said, monotone.

“No, it is quite sad.”

“Do you know where you were taken from?” Voldemort asked. The cat shook her head and Voldemort shrugged, sensing that this meant that she was never going back there. He wasn’t planning on going and taking her back to the nest anyway, so did not bother him.

“Why do you want to know?” Orphne asked. Voldemort considered the chimera. She couldn’t tell anyone else – nobody else in the house spoke parseltongue – and she might have some advice. He would have told Nagini. The great snake would have curled up at his feel, tail twitching as she considered the problem, then announcing what she thought was the best response. Nagini would have known what to do. Orphne was very young though. Voldemort sighed.

“Bella is going to have a baby.” He said, amazed that he was able to say it out loud (even if it was in parseltongue).

“Really!?” The chimera jumped up, excited.

“Calm down, it’s too early for this” He waved her down and got her to sit back down again. “and, anyway, it is complicated. We don’t know whether it is going to happen.” 

“Why would it not happen?” Orphne asked, confused as hell. Voldemort knew that this was her youth coming out, Nagini would have started spouting sage wisdom here. Now he would have to be the one to explain.

“Humans can choose whether to continue being pregnant or not.” He said simply, and the chimera nodded as if she understood. “It is not very good timing.” Voldemort leant his head back on the back of the chair and looked up at the sky, growing lighter and lighter as the sun rose.

“Is it ever a good time?” Orphne asked. Perhaps wiser than Voldemort had thought. “The fates work in mysterious ways.”

“Indeed, they do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering what painting I was thinking of, it was ‘Flaming June’ by Lord Frederic Leighton. It’s just so serene. And I thought the woman in it looked a bit like Bellatrix, but with lighter coloured hair. Also, the model that they think modelled for this painting – Dorothy Dene – was so beautiful and is sort of what I would think Andromeda would look like (she looked too kind to be Bellatrix lol).


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

“How are you, Le-Strange?” Dolohov asked, flopping down onto the bench next to her. She was in the garden, which had been mostly destroyed by Voldemort’s outburst when he’d first left Bellatrix behind. Scorches decorated the walls like claw marks in a bear enclosure. The only plant that had survived relatively unscathed was the lemon tree. Its fruits were scattered around the base where nobody had bothered to pick them up. Bellatrix had fixed one of the shattered benches and had taken her breakfast outside. The sheer number of people in the kitchen had forced her out of the room, she could not deal with their shit at that moment. Having finished it, she lay down on the bench, head propped up on the arm rest, eyes shut but brain whirling.

“Eh, pretty good,” She lied, sitting up, scooting her legs up to her chest to allow Dolohov to sit down next to her more comfortably. “Can’t complain.” She shrugged. Actually, she could complain – she could complain a lot. She could write an entire song with everything she had to complain about, but there was not enough time for that, nor did she have a piano to compose with.

“Good. I’m glad to see you’re safe.” Dolohov nodded with a friendly smile.

“Aw did you miss me Dolohov?” Taunted Bellatrix and he sarcastically flipped her off in a response.

“Yeah” he admitted with a shrug, “working with these lot without you is like trying to heard cats blindfolded. Rookwood won’t do anything I say.” Bellatrix knew that. Dolohov was not particularly intimidating outside of a battle situation. He looked more like an aging hippy than a serious dark wizard. The other deatheaters took the mick out of him a lot but he shrugged it off easily. Dolohov was not the type of person to internalize insults.

“Ah, need me to put the fear of god into him?” Bellatrix offered, feeling generous at that moment. Dolohov nodded jovially.

“He’s scared of you; he’d do whatever you tell him.”

“Glad to hear that.” Bellatrix grinned, nodding, happy that her reputation for viciousness alive and well. She’d beaten the shit out of Rookwood every time they’d duelled. He was not happy about this, but embarrassed himself every time he tried, so had since made an effort to avoid her.

Dolohov said nothing, and instead reached around to pull a rolled-up newspaper out of his back pocket. Unfurling it, he tried to balance it on her knees. It fell, and slid down her legs, showing her the front page as it did. Her Azkaban picture was on the front, the screaming, fighting, spitting photograph Bellatrix hated. So undignified. _BELLATRIX LESTANGE ON THE LOOSE_ was plastered above it. She expressed how disappointed she was with the headline, and Dolohov laughed. 

“Will you get angry with me if I ask you a personal question?” He asked suddenly. Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed.

“That would depend on what the question is, so no promises.” She said darkly. He nodded, like he knew what she was talking about. He leant back, away from her a little bit, and his hand rested on his belt. She wondered if he had his hand on his wand, just in case she took the question badly. This both amused and worried Bellatrix.

“Right. Are you pregnant?”

“Why would you ask that?” Bellatrix exclaimed. Dolohov had flinched away from her a bit as Bellatrix sprung up, jumping to her feet. They were sat right underneath the windows to the kitchen, which had been repaired after Voldemort had smashed them, and these windows were currently open. Bellatrix only remembered this when she realised she could faintly hear the conversation still happening in the room. She looked up over her shoulder to see if anyone had heard it, but nobody had moved in the kitchen, so she assumed not.

“Because you were acting like you were in the early stages of pregnancy before we went to Azkaban and I thought it would be better to just ask rather than speculate.” He put his hand up in defeat and surrender, hoping that she did not hit him. She did not, but she did jinx him, and forced him to fall off the bench, in a flurry of Russian swears. After one jinx however, she did not do it again, and instead breathed out shakily.

“Well…that’s very…perceptive.” She said quietly.

“So that’s a yes?” Dolohov put his hands down slowly, looking at her like she was a dangerous animal that needed to be kept at a good distance.

“Don’t tell the others.” She whispered, urgently, biting her lower lip in worry. He got up from the dry earth and brushed the soil off his clothes – another vile Hawaiian shirt covered in red sunsets. Dolohov waved away her concerns.

“I promise I won’t. I do not have a death wish.” He sat back down on the bench, with his foot resting on the opposite knee. “Does the Dark Lord know?” He asked, smiling and with an eyebrow raised. Bellatrix’s jaw dropped, her hands on her hips.

“How do you - ”

“It is obvious Le-Strange, you’re not hiding as well as you think you are.” Dolohov looked at her like she was being an idiot.

“Oh.” Bellatrix thought back to before the Azkaban incident to her sickness and had to agree with the fact that she probably should have noticed it beforehand. “He does.” She nodded quickly, sitting down on the bench again. He definitely did – and Bellatrix was well aware that he had been lying to her when he said that everything was ok. A terrible thought crossed her mind, and she turned to face Dolohov urgently. “Does everyone know?”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “I’ve just been stuck with you both.” Breathing a sigh of relief, Bellatrix leant against the back of the bench.

“So, what you really mean is ‘I, Dolohov, am very smart’ not that we’ve been really obvious.”

“I think it is somewhere in between. Congrats anyway.” He shrugged. She was not sure how to feel about this. On one hand, she was really pissed that Dolohov had managed to work it out, before her even which was embarrassing. On the other hand, she couldn’t help but feel a bit comforted that there was someone else that knew about it, and he wasn’t being horrible to her. He had not laughed at her, or lied to her, which was more than could be said for Voldemort. Something like friendship, that’s what it was, and Bellatrix found herself appreciating Dolohov’s presence a lot more than she had previously. She was about to thank him when they were interrupted.

“Oi – meeting room now!” Dido leaned out of the kitchen window and screamed down at them. Bellatrix really hoped she hadn’t heard anything, but given how loud she had screamed she thought probably not. Bellatrix jumped up before Dolohov, and offered a hand to pull him up to his feet. He took it and thanked her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a very successful meeting. Voldemort felt much better, much more focused, now that Bellatrix was back. Even with the bombshell announcement, he much happier to have her there. A void had been filled and said filling was currently arguing with Yaxley over whether it would be better to attack the ministry directly or continue the subversive approach. Yaxley thought a full-frontal attack would be best, whilst Bella thought he was a moron. There was not enough of them to take the ministry at that point. As her voice got louder, Yaxley had made a comment about her being a psychotic bitch, and had received a crutiatus curse as a response. Voldemort had not stopped her, and allowed the torture to continue for longer than really was necessary. As Yaxley’s face started to go fuchsia, Voldemort waved his hand.

“Alright Bella, that’s enough. I’m sure Yaxley has gotten the point.”

“Yes, my lord.” Bellatrix nodded, dipped her head slightly, with a smirk, and sat back down. Perfect posture, sitting in the dining chair like it was a throne (Voldemort had made sure she had a real chair and not one of the plastic ones), Bella looked beautiful. She had a glow to her and it was hard for Voldemort to tare his eyes away from her. He forced himself to, and instead looked to Yaxley. He crawled back up from the floor, breathing deeply, trying to return to a more natural colour. Nobody helped him, and Voldemort watched him climb with narrowed eyes.

“Anyway,” Voldemort continued the conversation that was going on before the incident, “there will need to be a raid on the ministry as soon as possible. It will be a show of power to show that they are not safe anywhere.” He went on the describe the incident in which he, Dolohov and Bellatrix had dumped the Red Caps into the ministry atrium, much to Bellatrix’s delight. He wanted something similar, as effective but more explicit for the ministry to know it was them. A few ideas were tossed around, and it was finally settled that a small group of deatheaters would infiltrate the ministry and release the creatures currently being housed in the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Any ministry workers they were to encounter should be killed on sight. Avoid aurors at all cost but engage them if there is no other option.

“Before we finish, does anyone have any questions?” Voldemort asked, not expecting any. He had been very thorough with his instructions. To his surprise, Bellatrix raised a hand, sheepishly, like a student who knows their question is stupid. With a quirked eyebrow, Voldemort nodded to her to ask whatever it was she wanted to say.

“This isn’t about the mission, my lord,” She began and a lightning strike of terror hit him momentarily, not knowing what she could possibly talk about and fearing the worst (the deatheaters did not need to know yet). He was relieved when she instead said, “but I would like to know where my father’s painting is.”

“Cygnus was being particularly irritating during your absence Bella,” He replied, not entirely keeping the sound of relief from his voice. Dolohov had the ghost of a smile sitting on his face – for what reason Voldemort was unsure and unwilling to dive into. “So, he was moved to the upstairs office room.”

Bellatrix nodded, unsurprised, and everything fell quiet for a beat. Dido filled that silence by asking for clarification on the charms the ministry used for defences. Voldemort explained again. He had already done so three times during the meeting, but he would rather repeat himself than have to concoct another rescue mission. There was however a look of pure concentration on Bellatrix’s face, as Voldemort watched her out of the corner of his eye, deep in thought. It was rather distracting when, like the illumination of a lumos charm, Bellatrix face lit up in an epiphany.

“Is there something you would like to share with the group, Bellatrix?” Voldemort asked, after he had finished explaining it to Dido.

“Yes, actually, my lord.” She grinned, and shifted slightly in her chair, clearly pleased as punch with whatever it was she had to say. “My father has several paintings, including ones in Malfoy manor and Grimmauld place.” She said excitedly, talking with her hands. It was an expression that Voldemort found endearing.

“Yes?”

“Oh Merlin!” Dolohov cried out, apparently having reached the same conclusion as Bellatrix.

“Narcissa would never expect a portrait of our father as a spy, and now she has proven herself to be a traitor, such espionage could give us some interesting information on the Order.” There were hisses around the table as Narcissa was mentioned, Bellatrix having already told the story of her sister’s treachery, like the crowd at a pantomime when the villain walks on stage.

What a marvellous idea! Voldemort had not considered this as a possible use for the painting. He doubted that Cygnus would do it for him, if any of the bastard’s rhetoric over the last week was real and not just vitriol over the loss of Bellatrix. He had not made any headway on killing curses for paintings either, so there was no threatening him. But Bellatrix, his most beloved (and now only loyal) daughter, asking it of him? Cygnus could not refuse.

There was of course the question of whether the Malfoy’s would be informed on anything useful. The Order would be fools to trust them. It was unlikely that they would host meetings in Malfoy Manor, however the Malfoy men were definitely stupid enough to say something useful in front of the painting. Narcissa? He was less sure about her. However, either way there was no harm in Cygnus actually doing something. Either he would get the information, or he would be out of the house and not bothering him. There was literally nothing wrong with this idea.

Voldemort smiled, gleeful and pleased, and invited Bellatrix to bring Cygnus back downstairs.

“As for the rest of you, meeting adjourned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you BlackSister394 for suggesting that they use Cygnus as a spy, it was a very good idea 😊


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

Cygnus accepted his new job instantly. It only took Bellatrix showing her face, and asking him nicely for him to agree. He was overjoyed to see her. Such an outpouring of emotion was out of character for a man like Cygnus – he had been a particular fan of the British stiff upper lip. But seeing his daughter back, alive and well had shattered those walls. Bellatrix took it well. Every compliment and fussy consideration for her safety had her half way between glowing and deeply embarrassed.

Bellatrix had put Cygnus back where he had been hung before, covering the dusty square that his removal had left behind. The sun had bleached the rest of the wallpaper slightly; behind the painting was a darker green than the rest of the walls. Voldemort had expected slightly more resistance from the man to spy on his youngest daughter, but it seemed the house of Black still held many surprises. 

“No daughter of mine would side with bloodtraitors and mudbloods!” He had roared when Bellatrix had told him about the Narcissa situation. Voldemort had resisted the urge to point out that two of his three daughters had done just that. It was not the time. Everything had fallen into place after that. Cygnus had agreed: talk to anyone in Malfoy manor that would speak to him, get any information that he could, do not let them know what you are doing. Bellatrix had lied to Cygnus, and had told him that there were spells to kill a painting so he should be very careful. Overall, it had worked well. Voldemort was very positive about the situation.

Everyone was given the afternoon off before the raid tomorrow. Despite how much they hated each other, Dolohov and Rookwood shared a deep love for history and had begrudgingly decided to go to the Naples museum together. Dolohov wanted to see the erotic artwork that was in there. Rookwood wanted to see any art that was not the erotic art. Voldemort assumed that there was going to be a fight between them. Dido, Macnair and Yaxley had gone fishing. Yaxley was not a fisherman, but Dido had promised to give him a lesson. They left very excited. Alecto had gone out for a walk by herself. She was grieving her brother, the time alone was really needed, and nobody questioned her. They kept a respectful distance of her, waiting until she was ready to talk. Umbridge had left with Leola Snyde. They had worked together at the ministry a long time before, and had decided to catch up properly over lunch. The house was empty aside from Voldemort and Bellatrix.

He was stood on the balcony, soaking up the late afternoon sun. A long time ago, years before he became Voldemort, back in his final year of Hogwarts and the time he worked in Borgin and Burkes, Tom Riddle had smoked cigarettes. It had been fashionable at the time, it helped him keep up appearances. It had helped him politically, offering someone a cigarette had been a great opportunity to speak with someone and manipulate them. And, though he was loath to admit it, they had calmed him down. When he had realised that he was using them to regulate him mood, rather than as a tool to hurt others, he had quit cold turkey. The nicotine craving had been dreadful, but they have proven to him that he needed to be free of them. Tom Riddle had not wanted to be dependent on anything. Standing on the balcony now, looking out at the sea, thinking about the situation he had gotten himself into with Bellatrix, Voldemort really wanted a cigarette.

“What time will the raid be tomorrow, my lord?” Bellatrix’s voice announced her presence, strolling onto the balcony, a glass of orange juice in one hand. She stood next to him, as he leant on the stone railing. The sea wind blew her hair around her head gently. She had gotten changed since the meeting and was in a very flowy, elegant, silk dress, tried with a ribbon at her waist, that wafted in the wind as she stood there.

“Seven – why?” Voldemort said, confused as to why she needed the answer. It wasn’t like she was fit to fight.

“…because I’m going to go?” Bellatrix raised her eyebrows like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He stood up then, looking down at her as he reached his full height. Voldemort hoped that she was not being serious.

“Do you think that’s a good idea Bella?” He turned his head slightly.

“Yes. Why would it not be?” She took a sip of her orange juice. Voldemort crossed his arms and, trying to keep the exacerbation out of his voice.

“Well,” he failed, and the statement came out a little snappily, “maybe because you got out of prison less than 48 hours ago, you’re clearly still exhausted and, oh I don’t know, you’re fucking pregnant.”

He got a wicked scowl from Bellatrix through the glass of juice, and she put it down hard on the stone rail of the balcony. She also crossed her arms and rested most of her weight on her left leg. She looked him directly in the eyes for once.

“Being pregnant does not stop me from being able to think or fight.” She spat.

“It kind of does stop you from being able to fight, actually.” Voldemort pointed out and also gestured in her general direction. She sighed, then pushed her hair back over her shoulder.

“Please my lord – I’m not an invalid – I need to have something to do. I don’t want to just sit alone in the corner, not doing anything. I’d go mad.” Voldemort decided not to jump on the fact that she clearly was already mad. No, she was not an invalid, but he did not think it was a wild suggestion that, seeing as she had not made a decision on what she wanted to do with…it…that maybe she should take a bit of extra care.

“Bella, I am not asking you to sit idle, I don’t think you should be risking it in battle.”

“I will be very careful.” She said pleadingly. That was something, he supposed, not something good but something nevertheless. She was never careful in battle, and that had probably saved her life on numerous occasions. Being a wildcard was an asset to her. ‘Careful’ Bella was probably a dead Bella.

“Look – if you want to go into battle – fine – I won’t stop you.” He put his hands up in defeat, shaking his head. “But by doing that I will assume that you do not want to keep this child because if you get hit by any spells you are going to miscarry it.” There was a moment of harsh silence between them as it looked like a that idea had only just dawned on her. He felt a little bad for a second, and softened his features. What he said next was much gentler. “Look. It’s your decision whether you keep it or not but, don’t put yourself at risk unnecessarily. Besides, even if you weren’t pregnant, it’s not a good idea for someone who’s been out of prison less than two days to go straight back onto the battle field. You need rest Bella.”

Bellatrix nodded, and sank down into the armchair, head resting on her hand, looking away from him out to the bay. The setting sun lit her face, golden against her skin. She watched the boats, moving slowly in the flat water. Voldemort wondered whether she was sulking or if she was considering what he had said. It was difficult to tell.

“I don’t know what I want, my lord.” Her voice was so quiet that he barely heard her over the background noise of the city. Thinking, then. As she turned back to face him, the flecks of gold in her dark eyes were exposed by the light. They turned from as dark as coal to little balls of amber.

“I know.” Voldemort nodded. He did not know what he wanted either. Silently, he extended the chair into more of a loveseat, so that they could sit comfortably next to each other, and eased himself down next to her. After a couple of seconds, Bellatrix shifted in the chair and slowly curled up to him. Her head rested gently on his chest, and her fingers looped around his robes. Silk between her fingers, she dragged her thumb backwards and forwards across the hem. He extracted his arm from between her body and his own, and then wrapped the arm around her. “There are a lot of pros and cons either way.”

“Have you made a list?” Bellatrix half laughed, but he could tell that she was not completely joking. She didn’t think that it was outlandish that he actually would have done so. He had considered it, but he had been worried about a paper trail.

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” He said, like it was an explanation. She nodded against his chest, and absentmindedly dragged her fingers in a circle on the back of his hand. It felt nice, and he smiled.

“I know the cons;” Bellatrix began, speaking like it was a business venture rather than a personal matter, “children are completely helpless for at least ten years, useless for about sixteen. Looking after a child in a war would be difficult, and would take attention away from winning the war. I’m a warrior – like you said, I cannot fight whilst I’m pregnant and you might need my skills.”

“I would also add that should a child of ours not be raised properly it would be a serious problem for the cause.” Voldemort added, seeing the terrible image of an unstoppably powerful child attempting to destroy everything he had built in his minds eye. On one hand, he thought that he might have read too many Greek myths, on the other hand, he had actually gone through with it himself, so…

“Yeah. That would be unfortunate.” Bellatrix said, pretty monotone. Sitting up quickly, she pulled away from him. Sitting up on her knees she looked him in the eyes, seriously. “I assure you though, my lord, if I was to raise a child, they would never betray you.”

“I don’t doubt that Bella.” He said, truthfully, and gave her wrist a squeeze. An appreciative smile flourished on her face but it died quickly as he watched a thought cross her mind, like a black cloud.

“I won’t have another chance to be a mother – this is a miracle in itself, it won’t be repeated. I don’t want to make a decision lightly.” It was the truth. This happening was so unlikely, he had done the maths in his head the night before and the odds had to be under 3% at the highest, that having another chance at this was virtually impossible.

She fell very quiet and did not look him in the eyes. Voldemort assumed that she was thinking of the positives she had already thought of. She had mocked him for having ‘a list’ but he could tell that she had made one too, but was not saying it out loud. A gnawing feeling in his chest – that he had never felt before - wanted her to tell him everything.

“I would like a chance to be a mother, I think…” She was about to say something, but stopped and blinked rapidly. “What did you think were the pros, my lord?”

“The pros? Well, any child of mine and yours would be an incredibly gifted sorcerer. They would be magnificent, wouldn’t they?” His mind’s eye had created a glorious vision of the future. A warrior, consumed in darkness and fire, with a keen and intelligent eye. He didn’t have an image of them though. No face. No sex or gender. Just a vague shadow of power. Bellatrix nodded in agreement, a look on her face that told him that she had been thinking of something similar. “Keeping the Slytherin line alive, should anything unfortunate happen is a plus.”

“And the house of Black – I’m the only one left.”

“Indeed. It would be a shame if such a noble line would die with you.” Slytherin and Black as well as the heir to the Dark Lord. It would be quite a reputation to live up to, he realised. For the first time in his life, he found himself being glad that he had nothing to live up to, only to create for himself in his life. “It would be an interesting exercise to train someone in the Dark Arts who has similar abilities to myself. And, I know your family is known to have random magical abilities bubble up into members, which could be interesting.”

“That’s true.”

“And,” He couldn’t believe he was about to admit this to her, but the words were on the tip of his tongue and they were dying to get out. “I will admit, I would enjoy sharing a child with you.”

It was true. Bellatrix Le-Strange was the only person in the world that he could ever see doing this with. She was the only person who he trusted enough. The only person who was ever remotely equal to him. Was that what love was? Was it this feeling what idiots like Dumbledore had been spouting about as ‘the greatest thing in the world’? No. This was not a good feeling. This was a clawing desperation for him to be with her. It was almost a pain. This could not be love. But he could accept whatever this was. 

There was a beat of silence between them, terrible silence in which Voldemort thought that he’d said too much, cursed himself for letting it slip. Bellatrix was gobsmacked. Eyes as wide as they possibly could go. Mouth slightly agape. Her hands had let go of his robes and hovered above him for a moment.

“I love you.” She admitted, like it was a horrible sin. Like it was the worst thing she could have said in the world. Maybe once he would have thought it was. Maybe once he would have been disgusted in her weakness. Maybe at one time he would have pushed her away after a confession like that. But that time had passed.

He did not say anything. He couldn’t trust himself to say the right thing. The golden manipulation he had once had had melted away from him when she was around. Instead, he smiled warmly. He took her hands back into his and pulled her close. Bellatrix sighed, contentedly, joyfully, against his kiss. The sound had his heart fluttering – he did not know what that was and decided to ignore the feeling. They sat together, entangled, for a long time.

“I do know one thing, though, our child would be very good looking.” Bellatrix said with a laugh, and pressed her head to his chest. All the tension was gone from her body, there was geniality pouring out of her. He didn’t even need legillimancy to see it. He rested his head atop of hers, he laughed too.

“So long as they have a nose.” He joked. 

“Eh, I like the noseless look.”

“So, is that a decision then?” It seemed like it was. It seemed like she was very sure as to what she wanted to do. Bellatrix sat up, placing her hands on his chest familiarly. She bit her lip, then shook her head.

“No. but I won’t go on the mission tomorrow.”

That sounded a lot like a decision to Voldemort, but he decided to nod and accept what she’d said. At least she’d listened to his concerns.

“We can work with that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah sure, he doesn’t love her. He cares for her deeply, would torture someone to death if they dared to do any harm to her, and is excited to have a child with her. But, no. that’s not love :I lol 
> 
> Hey so, quick update – I am not going to be able to update for the next week because I’m going to be very busy. The week afterward I will be back, so don’t worry, I’m not abandoning this story lol.


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

Dolohov was put in charge of the next mission.

“As a reward for your continued loyalty.” The Dark Lord had said. Dolohov thought that that was probably code for:

“Thank you for not mentioning anything about how Bellatrix and I have been acting.”

Dolohov didn’t care: he was willing to accept it either way. Never look a gift dragon in the mouth. That was the saying, wasn’t it? He was also under no illusions that, had Bellatrix been fit to fight, he would have received such an honour. All of this hinged on her, not him. This in mind, he wanted to make this mission count.

He had paid special attention to his appearance when getting ready. Dolohov knew that he was not a particularly intimidating person to look at. Usually he would tell himself that ‘the look’ was irrelevant – his wand did all the talking. However, looking at himself in the mirror that morning had him questioning that. His beard, which had once been a thick, lush, brown had become stringy and streaked with grey. Long hair, once his pride and joy (so beautiful as to rival Lucius Malfoy’s locks) had received a similar battering by Father Time. Bellatrix had called him a hippie once, merely a jab on her end, but Dolohov had actually found the comment endearing. He liked hippie fashion; he enjoyed their music. He found the ‘make love, not war’ slogan hilarious: Dolohov thought himself perfectly capable of doing both. So, he had absorbed the hippie stereotype into his appearance. Some how though, he felt that today required a different touch.

Dolohov had appeared to the deatheaters he commanded a different man. He had trimmed his beard, eliminating all the frizz and silver, and had actually cut his hair. Tearfully as he made his first cut, years of growth wasted, but with a determined zeal as he continued further. He appeared in the kitchen with his head shaved on the sides and respectably long on the top. Couple this with freshly washed and pressed deatheater robes, and Dolohov suddenly looked much more the part of a dark wizard.

“Got a date planned, Dolohov?” Rookwood had sneered, taking in how he had cleaned himself up. Dolohov only smiled (pissing Rookwood off immensely). His comment proved that he had made the correct decision. He ran his fingers over his shaved scalp, feeling the prickle of freshly cut hair, and shrugged. It would grow back and hopefully back better then than it had been before.

Rookwood, Crabbe, Carrow, Macnair, Yaxley, Snyde: Dolohov had been put in command of them all and he planned to use each of them to their fullest potential. He assigned them their roles in the kitchen as Bellatrix scowled in the corner (back on the ginger tea with a distinctly green undertone). Dolohov didn’t feel sorry for her. She’d done this to herself.

“Rookwood and Carrow, you two will be out scouts.” He declared, telling them to transfigure their features and sneak in undetected. “When you reach Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures signal to the rest of us, and we will follow.” He had a large map of the ministry spread across the table and used the salt and pepper shakers to show them the path he had planned.

Whilst the others were bend over the map, scoping out the route, Dolohov broke his composure and made a face at Bellatrix, receiving a rude hand gesture from her as a result.

“Right, Crabbe, Macnair – you two will be going to the security booth. Take control quickly, and when you’ve done signal us.” Dido Crabbe had worked in the department between the wars. She was an obvious choice for the job. Dido, for her part, was excited to do a bit and elbowed Macniar into smiling and agreeing that they’d have a great time. Bellatrix mimed being sick, apparently disgusted by the friendly banter. Dolohov rolled his eyes: and she wondered why she only had three friends. Hesitantly, he changed that number to four, as he had been unsure whether to count the Dark Lord as her friend, but given the circumstances…

“The rest of you will be with me. We’ll meet Carrow and Rookwood when the coast is clear. Be aware, there will be a fight. Take no prisoners, and good luck to you all.”

“And I’ll be waiting for your return like a sailor’s widow waiting for her husband to return from the sea.” Bellatrix said dramatically from behind the group. She sarcastically pressed her hand to her heart and pulled the nightgown she was wearing about her tightly, as if it was a defence against the sea wind. When that didn’t get much of a reaction, she shrugged and pulled out her wand instead. Everyone immediately noticed that it was not hers and stood slightly in awe that the Dark Lord had given her his old one. Bellatrix tapped the wand on the teapot, causing it to warm again.

“Why aren’t you coming with us Le-Strange?” Carrow asked, crossing her arms.

“The Dark Lord thinks that I need more time to recover from my imprisonment.” She lied casually, clearly unhappy with the command. Normally the other deatheaters would have argued this but seeing the white, yew wand in her hand had everyone more willing to believe in her story.

“Good – we’ll get so much more done without you.” Rookwood said rudely.

“How about you think things through before saying them? Maybe you won’t look like an idiot so often!” Bellatrix spat.

“We don’t have time for this!” Dolohov exclaimed, annoyed that he had allowed Bellatrix to commandeer the conversation again. “See you later, Le-Strange.”

“Bye.” She said, miserably, into her tea. Bellatrix watched the room empty as each person apparated away.

~~~~~~~~~~

Lying in wait was dull. So dull in fact that Dolohov had to take Yaxley and Snyde to go get a coffee while they waited. Spoiled for choice – the entrance to the ministry was right next to Borough Market – the three of them ended up in an older Thai restaurant. They were sitting quietly around a circular table, Thai iced coffees in hand, when the signal came through the Dark Marks that Crabbe and Macnair had reached the security booth. They were stood outside the phone box entrance when the second signal, from Carrow and Rookwood, came through.

“Ready?”

“Ready!” Snyde and Yaxley nodded. It was very busy in the ministry atrium. It was filled to the brim with bustling witches and wizards going about their businesses. Good – Dolohov thought – more carnage when their plan was completed. They had, since the last time they had been in the ministry, removed the ‘magic is might’ statue and had repainted the whole hall. No longer shrouded in darkness, it was now painted in a conspicuously Gryffindor collection of scarlet and gold. How very biased. Dolohov shook his head.

Snyde, Yaxley and himself had disguised themselves well. Snyde in particular was good with physical transfiguration. She had retrained as a beautician between the wars and had never been able to escape the bullying since. They weren’t looked at twice.

When they reached the secure entrance – the door into the part of the ministry not open to the public – they had to stop. It was the reason that they had sent Crabbe and Macnair on ahead: from the security booth they could open any doors for them without a pass. All that was needed was a signal through the Dark Mark and then they’d open the doors. Simple enough, right?

“They’re taking their time.” Snyde grumbled, crossing her arms impatiently and tapping her foot. They were stood in a dark recess in front of the security door. Yaxley glared at her.

“Give ‘em a chance, lov’.”

“They already signalled that they were in position!”

“Will you two shut up?!” Dolohov whispered fiercely, an uneasiness sitting low in his gut. Snyde was right. This was taking too long. A whole host of terrible scenarios began to play out in his mind. Had they been captured after the signal? Had one of them had a heart attack on the job (you never know, it had happened before)? Were they ignoring them? He could see that happening – they’d be stood in the booth having a bitter argument and just ignoring the burn of the mark. Or had they been discovered and were mid-way though fighting for their lives?

He needn’t have worried. The door slid open slowly – politely.

“See?” Yaxley gestured to the opening door, smugly. “No need for the impatience, Leola.”

“Fuck you Corban.”

“What did I say you little shits?” Dolohov snapped again, and lead them deeper into the bowels of the ministry. The only sound was the thump of their boots on the tiled floor. The one thing that made Dolohov a little uneasy was that they ran into nobody. Not a soul. But each door was the same, a little quicker each time. It couldn’t be a problem if they were still opening all the doors, right? Everything was going according to plan.

They reached the final door quicker than Dolohov could possibly had hoped for, and Yaxley and Snyde were ready for blood. Snyde jumped from one foot to the other, cracking her neck as they waited for the doors. Yaxley ran his wand through his fingers, like it was a fan and he was a fine lady at a royal ball in 1795. Dolohov did not share in their enthusiasm. Something was terribly wrong – he could feel it.

Like a yawn captured in slow motion, the door unlocked and pulled itself upwards. Bright white light hit their retinas, blinding them for a moment. Dolohov saw the problem before the others but was swept forwards with them in their excitement.

Merlin, he hated being proved right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back :) 
> 
> I found a triangular Hag Stone on Lindisfarne the other day so far to say I'm feeling pretty magic right now lol


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

“Checkmate.”

Voldemort and Bellatrix meanwhile were playing chess in the Naples kitchen and Voldemort was on a four-game losing streak. Bellatrix was playing particularly violently that morning, not her usual style, and he was more than a little distracted by the burning of the Dark Marks as his followers used them as signals. The price of being a leader, he supposed. He made a note to try to improve that aspect of the marks. Bellatrix grinned smugly as she added another line to her tally of wins.

“I let you win that one.” He lied, with a grumble, waving his hand over the board and having the tiny figures rearrange themselves back into their starting positions.

“Sure.” Bellatrix did not believe him. “Did you let me win the one before that?”

“Shut up Bella.”

“Or the one before that?” She said, quieter.

“Shut up Bella.” White goes first and, because Bellatrix always insisted on playing as black, Voldemort began the next game, moving one of his pawns.

“Are you going to ‘let me win’ the next one, my lord?” Bellatrix said, feigning innocence in her voice but not eliminating the cheeky grin that covered her face. She moved one of her pawns. 

“That would depend.” Voldemort could not keep the amusement from his voice, despite the fact that he was genuinely miffed about losing. He moved another pawn.

“On what?”

“On whether I lose again?” This made Bellatrix laugh. They played quietly for a while, not needing to talk. The silence was a comfortable one. They had been playing chess together somewhat regularly for decades. It was the first thing that they had done together that was simply to spend time with one another, not in a deatheater setting, or a training one, or even in a sexual one (as the relationship had started off as just that). The game held a special place in Bellatrix’s heart for just that reason.

It had been a dark and dreary November evening in 1974. Rodolphus had been in France visiting some cousins; Cissa and Lucius were on their honeymoon; Andromeda had run away the month before. Overall, it had not been a good month for Bellatrix. A month of rage, petty miseries, looks of pity and smugness from her social circle. There had been a small fire in her apartment, some family photographs had curled, blackened and burned. She’d been able to replace the offending oven, not the pictures.

Bellatrix had been feeling rather morose, more than a little lonely, and the Dark Lord had noticed. At the end of that day’s meeting Bellatrix had skulked off and released some of her pent-up misery on some unsuspecting muggles. Coming back home, she’d washed off the blood and soot – then had flopped down dramatically on the rug in her sitting room, behaving like a romantic poet in a dirty, Parisian opium den.

She had been lying there for quite a long time when her dark mark had burned. Bellatrix had lifted her arm to look at the black skull and snake. Eyes then rolled over to the grandfather clock that loomed next to the fireplace. Midnight. She had sighed melodramatically, and got back to her feet. Their ‘rendezvous’ so to speak often began like this, their movements secretive and purely lustful. Bellatrix was pleased that he was calling her: she could use some of that attention at that moment.

It was entirely unexpected for her to see, when entering the Dark Lord’s study, that he was sitting behind his desk. Before him sat a chess board. It was a beautiful set. The figures were carved in precious stones, black in jet and white in quartz. The board was polished and picked up the light from the roaring fireplace, glowing a warm orange because of it. The fireplace lit up the Dark Lord’s face devilishly. He was sat with his fingers pressed together in a triangle shape, his elbows on the desk.

“My lord?” She had bowed, a little confused as to what he had called her for. It wasn’t like their normal times.

“Sit down, Le-Strange,” he had gestured for her to sit at the chair across the desk from him. “Had a pleasant evening?”

“Um, yes, thank you my lord.”

“Really? Because you look absolutely miserable.” He had said with a smirk. She had huffed a little in laughter at herself and had briefly stated that she was not having a good month. He had looked on, regarding her with a look she had not seen from him before. She had struggled to give it a name. When she had finished, he had leant back in his chair. “You told me you like to be alone, Bellatrix,” her heart had fluttered on hearing her name on his tongue, “and yet here you are, complaining of loneliness.”

“I do like to be alone, but loneliness and being alone do not necessarily correlate, my lord.” She had said, with lowered eyes.

“Wise words.” The Dark Lord had nodded. Then, as she looked up, Bellatrix had seen him smile. He had not lost his good looks by that point. Handsome, hair a dark iron grey, signs of age but worn well, red eyes: Bellatrix had been in awe of him, in both his power and his looks. “Well, I suppose you are wondering why I have called for you?” Bellatrix had nodded. “I had a sudden urge to play chess, and there is nothing sadder than playing chess alone, is there Bellatrix?” She had been in disbelief for a second, wondering whether this was a test of her loyalty or something. But what would he have been testing, she had been nothing but loyal for the last three years that she’d worked for him?

“You want to play chess, my lord?”

“That is what I just said, is it not?” He had said, a little harshly, and Bellatrix had babbled an apology. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He had added, to her surprise.

“Oh, I would!” She had said, a little too eagerly she had thought at the time. “I’m quite good at it, my lord.”

“Good,” He had returned to his charismatic self, “I like a challenge.”

They had played five games, just talking the whole evening. She had been nervous at first, but he had put her at ease and she’d ended up winning two of the five. After the first game, they had moved from the desk to the couch, putting the board on the coffee table. Bellatrix had ended up falling asleep in his office that early morning, and looking back, Bellatrix thought that it was that evening that changed everything.

Speaking of how things had changed, Bellatrix was brought out of memory lane by the churning of her stomach. She charmed the kettle to start boiling once more and stretched upward before putting her hand to her stomach in a vain attempt to make it feel better.

“Feeling sick again?” Voldemort asked.

“It is very inconvenient.” Bellatrix nodded, unimpressed, paler than usual.

“I’ll send a letter of complaint to human evolution for you.” He said dryly. Bellatrix moved a rook. “What would your chief complaint be?”

Bellatrix considered this for a moment, her hand still resting on her stomach, involuntarily. That was a question. Bella had many complaints. She didn’t know what she disliked more: the illness, the ache in her breasts that still had not went away or the fact that she should not fight. All were irritants. She settled on the fact that she should not fight. As someone who had suffered through all manner of discomforts in her life, Bellatrix had never felt like she shouldn’t fight before. Could and should are of course different things. If it came to it, she was sure that she could fight. She was perfectly able to physically (for the moment anyway). But thinking about it, and she blamed Voldemort entirely for putting the thought in her head, made her feel a little bit guilty. She didn’t want it to be harmed.

“Feeling weak I suppose.” She shrugged. Not wanting to contemplate that much, she changed the topic quickly. “My sister lied to me. She talked on and on about the ‘pregnancy glow’.” It was not the only thing Cissa had lied about. Bellatrix had stopped referring to Narcissa by her name, just as the relationship status she held. Bellatrix did not want to cut another sibling out of her life, but this betrayal felt even worse than Andromeda’s had. Well, maybe not. Maybe it was equal.

“I mean, Narcissa is an idiot.” Voldemort moved a knight, and took one of Bellatrix’s pawns. She swore: she had not seen the knight.

“She is not an idiot, my lord, she is actually quite intelligent. She just doesn’t use her brain the way she should.” Bellatrix regained her smile as her rook took said knight.

“Looks like a duck, swims like a duck, quacks like a duck…” Voldemort muttered.

“She is not a duck.” Bellatrix deadpanned. A thought then struck her suddenly and she mulled over it for about a minute (the two of them falling back into their comfortable silence in the meantime) before she voiced it. “Do you want a son or a daughter?”

“Very direct Bella.” He said, clearly surprised that this was a conversation that they were actually having. “I don’t mind.” He said truthfully. “You can be powerful and feared either way.” Bellatrix almost laughed at his reasoning: she loved that THAT was what his mind had gone to.

She didn’t really have a preference either, but there was a small part of her that craved a dark haired, dark eyed little girl. A girl with her hair and the Dark Lord’s cheekbones, holding her hand as they walked through the garden of a grand house. A daring warrior to fight alongside. A little helper, a little minion; there was something very appealing about that to her.

She did not get a chance to tell him that though. A shriek, panicked, called out to her through the house.

“Bellatrix!” Cygnus shouted, genuine fear in his voice, “Are you here? Bellatrix!”

“What is it Father?” Bellatrix jumped up like she was struck by lightning from the stools she was sat on and rushed into the next room. Voldemort followed her, equally as quickly. Cygnus looked very scared. Eyes wide, hands fidgeting, looking over his shoulder as though he was worried that someone was following him. 

“I was in Malfoy Manor - ” He breathed heavily like he had been running (which of course he had not, he was a painting), “Draco is working with the Potter boy – he was called to the ministry – he said, ‘we have caught the deatheaters, we need you to come now!’”

“Oh fuck!” Bellatrix breathed, pressing her hands to either side of her head. Voldemort was very still, very quiet and clutched the Elder wand in his fingers till his knuckles went white.

“I am going to kill Dolohov when this is over.” He spat. “Are you completely sure? And sure, that this is not a set up?”

“Yes, my lord,” Cygnus was very sincere, “Nobody even noticed I was there. I hadn’t spoken to anyone; I was just sitting in the corner.”

Voldemort swore in parsletongue - Bellatrix had no idea what it actually meant but it was very clear that it was a curse. He turned quickly and put a hand on Bellatrix’s shoulder.

“Stay here, I’ll go sort this out.”

“You are going to need my help!” She cried. The kettle whistled in the background but they both ignored it.

“Bella we cannot risk this!” He said, not leaving room for argument.

“Risk what?” Cygnus asked, confused. Voldemort was about to tell him that it didn’t matter and to mind his own business. Bellatrix however stopped him. She held her hand up towards him in a shushing motion.

“Dad, I’m pregnant. Stay out of this!”

“WHAT!” He shrieked but was completely ignored. The painting continued to mutter is disbelief, anger and as he tried to figure out what had happened.

“Bella, please, let me deal with this. Stay here!” He did not let her get a word in before he disapperated into a cloud of black smoke.

Bellatrix was absolutely incensed – the beating of her heart was loud in her ears and only made worse by Cygnus’ freak out in the background.

“Oh Merlin Bellatrix! This better not be the Dark Lord’s child or I am going to kill you both - ”

His rage was the battle drum to her soldier’s fight. She was pissed that the Order had somehow managed to figure them out again. Pissed at Dolohov for clearly not planning his mission as thoroughly as he should have done. She was pissed at the Dark Lord for leaving her without even letting her argue her case. And, she was pissed at herself. Pissed because she felt guilty about she was about to do.

“Dad shut up!” Bellatrix screamed, “We will talk about this later!” Cygnus’ mouth clunked shut, shocked that she would speak to him in such a tone.

“You’re not staying here, are you?” He asked, a resigned form of misery in his voice. He knew her too well.

“No fucking way!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have played exactly four games of chess (that did not go well) so I have no idea whether this sounds like actual chess or not, but meh.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

Dolohov was very unhappy with how the situation had turned out. The doors had opened, stupid Snyde and Yaxley had surged forward without looking first and had dragged the three of them straight into the open arms of the Order of the Phoenix. As quickly as they had opened, the doors clanked shut behind them, like a death nell.

The hall Dolohov found himself in was large – the ceiling so high as to be obscured by small clouds. At five-meter intervals around the hall were cages, each filled with another magical creature. None of the cages had roofs. The creatures that could fly had terrible chains around them, keeping them in place. Most of them had been smuggled into the country illegally and thus were being held in the ministry until a better home could be found for them. Better home in big quotation marks usually, Dolohov recalled. The ministry did not have a good track record with that sort of thing, unfortunately. There was a young dragon – Dolohov did not recognise the breed but it reminded him of a picture of a dinosaur he’d seen in a museum at one point – a large male chimera, a unicorn mother and two very young foals as well as a few other, smaller creatures. Not all the cages were filled. In fact, the majority of them were empty.

Other members of Order were placed strategically around the hall. An auror between each cage, five of them stood, arms crossed, in front of the door on the other side of the room. They were a wall of stone-faced brutes between Dolohov and the nearest exit. As if to tantalise him with the possibility of freedom, the door was open. He could see the employee kitchen, smell the breakfast many of them had been having.

Stood before the cages – and immediately in front of where Dolohov and the others had entered- was a gaggle of Weasleys. They had Rookwood and Carrow in their grip. The two of them had their hands up in surrender, the wands of the Weasleys pressed to the back of their necks. Alecto mouthed that she was sorry, but one of them (Dolohov believed it was Charlie Weasley but all of them looked the damn same to him so he could have been wrong) pressed the wand harder into the base of her skull. Potter stood at the front of the pack, like the chief goose flying at the front of the goose chevron.

“Well fuck.” Dolohov said, slowing to a half run as he made it into the hall.

“Well fuck indeed.” Potter said, pointing his wand at Dolohov. “Put your hands up on the top of your head. Now.”

Dolohov’s eyes were immediately drawn to his arm. It was not his natural arm. Where flesh and blood had been once now there was metal. It looked like molten gold moulded into the shape of an arm and a hand but not quite having set yet. It moved fluidly. It had all the dexterity of a regular hand but there was just something about the movement that was different. Dolohov couldn’t quite place what it was. It reminded him of Wormtail’s new hand, but gold instead of silver. He vaguely remembered Bellatrix announcing that the Dark Lord had dismembered Potter when they were in the bunker, but Dolohov had assumed that they would have been able to fix it. Apparently not.

“Yeah, I’m not going to do that.” Dolohov sent a curse flying in Potter’s direction.

Oh, he was so screwed. The Dark Lord was going to kill him. He was going to see all the crap that was going down, and Dolohov would be dead before he even got to explain anything. Fucking Bellatrix would dance on his grave. She’d have a grave rave.

Yaxley and Snyde (luckily) followed his lead, firing curses at the Weasley’s holding Carrow and Rookwood. Charlie (?) fell back, screeching in pain under a strong crutiatus curse, releasing Carrow. She surged forward, re-joining the other deatheaters and springing back into the fight.

Rookwood however was not as lucky. The Weasley girl had hold of him and, instead of giving him up, she fired a hex straight into the back of his head. The bat bogey hex it seemed. The force of the spell not only transformed his bogeys into large bats (that flew out of his nose violently) but also sent a wave of pressure to the man’s head. He didn’t have time to cry out. Falling forward like the blow to the back of the head that had come from any other blunt object – Dolohov’s mind went straight to frying pan for some reason – he fell like a sack of potatoes to the ground. Blood poured from his facial orifices, eyes, mouth, nose and ears. Dolohov was not sure whether Rookwood was dead or not, and there was not time to check.

He may have been a complete dickhead that Dolohov could not stand, but he was an ally. It was expected that the rest of them should double down on their attack. It had suddenly become very personal.

It seemed that the Weasley girl had not expected that outcome either. She tapped the bleeding body with the end of her foot, eyes wide and filled with terror. Dolohov wondered whether she had ever killed before. One of the other members of the Order had to shout at her to pay attention to the fight, just in time before a killing curse slamming straight into her. Carrow swore – it had been her curse she’d avoided.

“They were waiting for us when we got here.” Carrow stood beside Dolohov as they fought. “They knew we were coming!”

“Bastards,” Dolohov muttered, firing a killing curse straight into an auror he didn’t recognise. “We’ll have to work that out later.”

Assuming there is a later, he thought. There was no good ending for him here. Either he was killed by the Order, taken prisoner (and he knew for a fact that the Dark Lord would not be as eager to rescue him as he had been for Bellatrix) or killed by the Dark Lord for his failure. Which was worse?

"Ventus Duo!" Dolohov hissed, a powerful gust of wind exploding out of the end of his wand and sent the auror it hit flying. Unfortunately for her, she was sent straight up, over the top the chimera’s cage. Such a hungry beast would not pass up on the opportunity for fresh meat. He barbequed her mid-air: she was dead before the blackened remains fell into the creature’s mouth. The smell was unbearable. The crunch as the chimera chewed was worse.

“Locomotor Mortis!” Snyde spat, to his left, aiming the jinx at the Weasley girl. Her body froze, knees clamped together, forced into the position cartoon characters are drawn in when they need to pee. Unable to put out her hands to stop the fall, the Weasley girl clattered to the floor and Snyde grinned, a hungry lioness. She was ready for her prey.

That smile transformed to a grimace, then her mouth was thrown open in a bloodcurdling scream. Snyde screamed as a vicious sectumsempra ripped through her chest, curtesy of Potter himself, springing in to rescue the Weasley girl. Blood went everywhere: a fountain of pain. Part of Snyde’s ribcage clattered to the monochrome tiles at Potter’s feet. There were organs. Which ones they were Dolohov could not tell – they were obscured in the gore. Her intestines were very recognisable, however. Members of the Order stepped over her quivering corpse as they reached the three remaining deatheaters up against the far wall.

Dolohov tried every dark curse he could think of. He tried fiendfyre; the unforgivable; that curse that turned bones to jelly; the curse that collected all the potassium in the victim’s body and turned it into an actual banana; cursed bees; switching hair, teeth and fingernails. Each curse was devastating to any one or two people that it hit, but they were so outnumbered, so evenly matched (magically speaking) that it didn’t matter. Even with Yaxley and Carrow working just as hard either side of him, they found themselves with their backs against the wall. No escape.

This was the end. Dolohov was sure. Of his life, of his friend’s lives. Of the cause. And the last thing he had consumed was a fucking iced coffee! The shame of it: he had been certain that the last thing he would have ever drank would have been some form of absinthe but no! Fucking coffee! And he was about to be killed by children – this was a fucking travesty!

“How is it, Dolohov, that I leave you in charge for two hours and in that time, you have managed to destroy the entire movement?”

Dolohov had never been so happy to be belittled in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that ‘grave rave’ is the worst thing I have ever written but once I thought of that I could not take it out lol.
> 
> It’s my eighteenth birthday today and proper, full on lockdown starts in the UK again tomorrow, so I am going to the pub while I still can tonight. Imma get a gin 😊


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

Voldemort was absolutely livid. From what Cygnus had overheard, he had expected to appear and find them at least still fighting. Perhaps failing, but alive and still fighting. Voldemort did not expect to see two dead and three pressed up against the wall, looking like they were about to be executed. Three fully grown adults, surrounded and about to be killed by mainly children.

He almost wished that he did pay the deatheaters, so that he could ask them what he payed them for. But, alas, they were volunteers.

“My lord – forgive me!” Dolohov cried, sounding more pleased than miserable at seeing that Voldemort had arrived. Stupid man.

His cries caused the Order to look behind them, over their shoulders, and lay their eyes upon the Dark Lord himself. Some of the newer aurors cried out in terror, jumping back, unsure whether to keep fighting the corners deatheaters or turn their attention to the Dark Lord. Order members that had fought against him since the first war merely gritted their teeth (although the fear was present – he could taste it) and turned to face him instead. He recognised several of them from the first war. Elphias Doge ended up making direct eye contact with him, a snarl of disgust on his lip which mildly amused Voldemort. Long ago, Doge had been a formidable dueller, but his time had passed. His hands shook too badly now. He stood next to Aberforth Dumbledore, who looked so uncannily similar to his brother that, for a moment, Voldemort thought it had been the other Dumbledore back from the grave.

“I will deal with you later, Dolohov.” Voldemort hissed, as threateningly as possible, very aware that the entire Order had their eyes on him now. He needed to look intimidating. “This is, by far, the most incompetent thing you have ever done.”

“Yes, my lord.” Dolohov nodded, agreeing profusely.

“Maybe you should fight yourself instead of sending your minions to do your dirty work for you.” Potter spat, revealing himself, making his way from close to the other deatheaters to the side of the group that Voldemort was stood on. The sight of Potter’s new arm was not lost on him. The sight of it made him smile wickedly.

“Maybe you should be resting, Potter, seeing that you appear to be down an important body part.” Voldemort taunted back.

“Thanks to you!” Potter snarled and fired an ineffectual expelliamus towards Voldemort, which he deflected lazily.

“Be happy that it was just your arm last time, you fool.”

And a fool he was. A fool they all were. As occupied as they were with the Dark Lord, the entire Order having turned around to face the bigger threat, they had neglected to keep an eye on the other deatheaters. Dolohov, Carrow and Yaxley had been left unsupervised, and that was not a good thing for anyone involved.

“You will not escape this time!” Potter announced, melodramatically. Voldemort was self-aware enough to realise that he was prone to dramatics as well, but that was too much even for him. Potter sounded like a character from one of those stupid muggle movies, which Voldemort had not seen many of but was familiar with the art form. He considered it research on his enemies. He had not been impressed.

Potter took a step forward, like a swordsman does in fencing, his wand held out in front of him. The Order also advanced behind him. They looked like they were playing granny footsteps. Voldemort wondered if Potter was randomly going to turn around to face them, and they’d have to freeze or be sent back to the wall. Why the kid’s game was called granny footsteps he’d never know, but it was one of the games he’d been the best at back in the orphanage and because of that it held a special place in his shrivelled heart. It was also completely irrelevant at that moment, so he put it out of his mind.

Over their heads, Carrow made eye contact with the Dark Lord, and gestured with her head – clearly asking whether they should attack. Ok – Voldemort had to admit his lot weren’t the brightest either. Of course they should attack. Morons. He rolled his eyes at her, and Carrow took the hint. She elbowed a still sheepish looking Dolohov and in turn he elbowed Yaxley. Ridiculous!

“I think, Potter, you speak of yourself, not me.” Ok – maybe he was equally as ridiculous in his speech. It mattered not though, as, as soon as that stupid phrase had left his mouth, Carrow sent a powerful diffindo spell into the crowd before her, rippling through the group. Blood splattered like sea spray and Voldemort sighed.

Let’s get this over with, he thought. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bellatrix was determined to go after him however, she was also going to make sure that she did it right. There was no way that she was going to end up back in prison again. She was also trying to make sure that she would not be in too much danger. Of course, being on a battlefield was not a particularly safe place, but she decided that she needed to take a few precautions.

She had lost her battle corset to the Order – not that it would have been viable for her to wear it anyway. Still, it was sad that she did not have it with her. It was a lucky charm of such. Really, the luck was needed right at that exact moment.

Bellatrix had dared upstairs, ignoring Cygnus begging her not to leave. She was not dressed – she hadn’t bothered. Bellatrix had not considered it necessary given that she was not supposed to be out doing anything today. Sprinting down the upstairs corridor towards her bedroom, Bellatrix’s brain was whirling. Where exactly were they going? What had gone wrong? How many people were dead? How would Cissa react when she killed her son, because that was definitely going to happen to the stupid traitor? Should she bring some other weaponry or just her wand? How could she guarantee the safety of the child whilst still fighting the damn Order like a hurricane?

She yanked the door to her cupboard open and pulled out the first dress she saw. The cupboard was filled with a mixture of her own clothes and those of her Father’s mistress. Luckily, they were a similar size. Even luckier, Josephine Nott had once had a good taste. Bellatrix just had to distance her mind from whom they had belonged to. She ended up grabbing a black, fine wool dress. It was baggy. She could run in it easily.

Jumping about like she was on hot coals, getting dressed as quickly as possible, Bellatrix cried out in surprise when a head poked out from underneath the bed. Slipping on the edge of the rug, Bellatrix clattered to the ground, swearing profusely at Orphne for scaring her.

The chimera crawled out from under the bed, uncomfortably. She would not be able to fit there much longer – Orphne was about the size of a young Great Dane dog at that point. It took Orphne quite the struggle to get out, but managed it, sitting down in front of Bellatrix.

“Hello.” Bellatrix smoothed out the dress, and sighed, before shifting to sit cross legged in front of Orphne, as the chimera was using her lion head to lick her leg like a normal cat. She sat up and turned her heads to the side, showing that she was listening. A brilliant plan had just crossed Bellatrix’s mind. “I know that you can understand me, even if you cannot respond. Can you breathe fire?” Orphne answered by blowing a little fireball out from her throat. Bellatrix grinned, pleased. “Are you ready for your first mission, my dear?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain could not come up with natural sounding dialogue for the Potter confrontation so please enjoy whatever the fuck that was lol
> 
> Also, if anyone has any idea why it's called Granny's footsteps please enlighten me because google has been unhelpful


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up - there is going to be some discussion of alcohol abuse in this chapter, so if that not your thing you might want to skip this one :)

Bellatrix was just finishing up some pretty complicated transfiguration magic on Orphne. It was the last thing she needed to do before they could leave. If they were going to break into the ministry through muggle London, she could not be seen wandering around with a three headed abomination after all, no offence to Orphne. A glow of golden light bubbled around the end of the yew wand as she disguised the features of the chimera. Hiding her size was a little beyond what Bellatrix could do at that moment, her mind constantly flicking between what she was doing and how she was going to break into the ministry. Orphne ended up looking like a very convincing Great Dane – her snake head wagging like a dog’s tail as Bellatrix finished.

She breathed out, put the wand back into her coat, and stood back admiring her work. She had to make her brindle to blend in with her yellow, lion fur but still look convincing. The goat’s head had to be flattened and made into one of the brindle-markings on the back of the animal’s neck. If you looked too closely, you could see the two eyes of the goat’s head blinking every so often. Bellatrix had tried to stop that from happening, but had been unable to do so. Instead, she had just made them look brown. No matter, she thought. She doubted anyone would be looking at the back of the ‘dog’s’ head.

“Feeling alright?” Bellatrix asked Orphne, just making sure that it wasn’t painful for her head to be smushed into the back of her other head. Orphne nodded, gave a sort of smile, and snorted a little flame out of her nose. Bellatrix sighed, pleased with herself. Time to go.

Orphne was not the only one who had been disguised of course. Bellatrix had done some for herself as well. She had decided that she was going to make herself look older. Nobody would expect that, especially not the Order. Standing in the hallway before they left, Bellatrix checked herself in the mirror. Hair completely white and cropped short; the lines of age (which were already starting to make an appearance on her face much to her chagrin) had been made more extreme, Bellatrix had altered the structure of her face slightly, just in case she was recognised through the years she had added. She’d rounded her usually square jaw. Thinned out her lips even more than they were usually. Lightened her eyes from deep brown to a green. She could still tell it was her, her in a costume, or in thirty years, but her nevertheless. Bellatrix didn’t mind it: she thought she looked quite good old. Elegant. Maybe she wouldn’t mind it when it was a reality?

Apprerating was not something that Orphne enjoyed. They appeared in a back alley along the Southbank and Orphne was immediately sick into a grid.

“Oh really?” Bellatrix sighed, scrunching up her nose in disgust. Orphne whined, sadly, and in a bit of distress. “At least you got it into sewer I suppose.” Bellatrix said, a little more comfortingly, patting Orphne lightly on the top of the head, and scratching behind one of her ears. That made her feel a bit better, and Orphne allowed Bellatrix to attach a lead to the collar she had put around her neck. “Come on then, let’s go.”

It was drizzling. ‘What wonderful summer weather’, Bellatrix thought to herself. She was glad she had picked up a coat before leaving, one of Josephine’s with a black fur trim. It was inappropriate for the current temperature, it was wet not cold, but Bellatrix was very aware of the fact it was always freezing inside the ministry.

How Bellatrix walked along the side of the Thames could not quite be described as ‘sprinting’, nor was it ‘strolling’ or even ‘walking’ really. It was the kind of power walk done by students, late for class, who were not allowed to run in the corridors, and were unable to break that rule because all of the classrooms had windows looking out into said corridor and all the teachers currently teaching gave out detentions like a pirate giving out syphilis. Orphne struggled to keep up.

Bellatrix assumed that they had been caught whilst in the department of Magical creatures. She’d seen Dolohov’s plan for getting in there – it was good, irritatingly. His plan however for after they had gotten in did seem a little bare boned to her at the time, but she’d been unconcerned. She fucking regretted that now!

They climbed some stairs and walked deeper into the city away from the river. Orphne looked as through she was about to fly up the steps and Bellatrix had to nudge her with a boot a little to get her to stop.

“Dogs don’t fly.” She whispered to her, and motioned for her to walk. Orphne huffed, irritated, but did as she was told.

Everywhere they walked in London, Bellatrix knew exactly which bit of the ministry they were standing over. Southbank pretty neatly covered the department of mysteries.

Druella Black had worked as an Unspeakable in the department of Mysteries the majority of her adult life. She was a very busy woman during Bellatrix’s childhood – much to the distain many members of the House of Black. A lady of the house was above working there, or so Bellatrix’s grandparents had muttered behind their wine glasses in the corners of family gatherings. Druella didn’t care. She loved her work.

It was always a special day for Bellatrix as a child when she went to see her mother at work. Patent leather shoes shined; white socks pulled up to the knee; nicest coat donned; Bellatrix and her sisters would be marched, by their father, through the halls to their mother’s office. Tea, cake and toffees waited behind the door, as well as their mother ready to needle them about how they had been doing in the classes. Bellatrix always had good things to report, so was never fearful, but Narcissa struggled with maths, and Andromeda struggled with writing, so it was more terrifying for them. Druella did not like to hear of failures.

Bellatrix could not be more grateful to her mother for insisting on those lunch-break meetings as they had given her an in-depth knowledge of the layout of the ministry. As had being a deatheater for so long – you can’t be constantly trying to destroy the place without knowing your way around.

Druella had not been best pleased with their constant attempts to bring the place to its knees – “some of have real work to do, my darling” she’d said once, but she’d still handed over any information Bellatrix had asked of her. With a grumble, or after a promise to visit more often, or after an afternoon tea that had devolved into light hearted bickering about one subject or another.

The last Christmas before Azkaban, though nobody could have predicted that it would be at the time, then all they knew was that it was the first Christmas after Cygnus had died, Druella had found Bellatrix hiding from the party in the library. She was drunk, Bellatrix noticed immediately. Druella had always drank a little too much, after Andromeda’s betrayal it had gotten worse, then Cygnus dying…she was drunk more often than she was not.

“Bella,” She’d said, sloppily, an overfilled glass of mulled wine in one hand (which Bellatrix knew must have something else added, because mulled wine had all the alcohol boiled out of it), “have you had a good Christmas?”

“Of course, mother,” Bellatrix had smiled, lying. Her father was dead, the Dark Lord had been obsessed with that bloody prophecy for months all ready, and had been ignoring her advice, Narcissa had been rubbing her beautiful, baby in everyone’s faces and had become one of the most insufferable new mothers imaginable. It had been a very gloomy, irritating Christmas.

“You are a liar.” Druella had used the glass-filled hand to point at Bellatrix. “It has been a fucking travesty!” This had shocked Bellatrix, as her mother never swore. Druella had flopped down, very unladylike, onto a couch, nursing the drink. She’d stretched her arm out inviting Bellatrix closer. “Sit with me darling.” She asked with a drawl. Bellatrix had done as her mother asked, kicking off her shoes and sitting with her legs curled up on the couch. Druella had put and arm around her and kissed her forehead.

“Why has it been a travesty mother?” Bellatrix had asked softly, reciprocating and wrapping one of her arms around her too, holding her close and tight. A good hug would not make things better. It wouldn’t bring Cygnus back to life. It wouldn’t finish the war. It wouldn’t make Andromeda come back to her senses or Narcissa be less of a bitch. But it was comfort, and the two of them needed it.

“It’s all wrong Bella,” Druella had said, so miserably that it had Bellatrix’s heart breaking. She felt Druella gulp, holding back tears, and then leaning more into her. “It’s just all wrong…”

“It will be better soon, mum, I promise.” Bellatrix had said, truly believing it at the time, but looking back Bellatrix felt like a fool. Druella had stroked her hair, gently, tears rolling down her face. It didn’t stop her taking another deep gulp of her drink though. Bellatrix could smell the vodka. Taking it away from her mouth again, and breathing out shakily, Druella had smiled weakly.

“I hope you’re right, darling. I hope you’re right.”

She’d died while Bellatrix was in Azkaban. Narcissa had to send her a telegram about it: Bellatrix hadn’t been allowed to leave for the funeral. Druella had drank far too much. She’d been on her own, she’d been drinking since she’d woken up, and she’d leant on the balustrade at the top of the stairs a little bit too forcefully. That was all it took. She’d fallen. Nobody found her for seven hours.

Bellatrix missed her mother. She missed the smell of her perfume, the sound of her laugh – cold and cruel usually – the iced buns she always had in their meetings or teas together. The poetry books she gave Bellatrix for Christmas every year. The feel of her hand stroking her hair after a bad day. The beating of her mother’s heart. Bellatrix wanted to talk to her about the situation she found herself in currently. Druella would have scowled at the news, pursed her lips and tapped her foot, but after the initial shock she would have plunged straight into action. Her mother would have known what to do. Druella had been a wonderful grandmother to Draco, as far as Bellatrix was aware. More than that though, Bellatrix just wished that she was able to say goodbye to her.

Bellatrix had been thinking about her mother as her feet look her to where she needed to be. Her hand had been resting on her stomach the entire time. She didn’t even realise she was doing it. She didn’t realise that there were tears in her eyes, either. Arriving where she needed to be, in between a few strangely shaped skyscrapers above the Department of Magical creatures. Bellatrix stopped, blinked several times and put her mother out of her mind. She would return to her later.

So, there she stood, Orphne to her left looking up at her waiting for her to lead the way, looking down over a vent shaft. Every few seconds, a gust of hot air would be blown out. It felt like being breathed on. Her lip curled in mild disgust and she rolled her eyes. She did not think that after escaping the bunker that she would have to go crawling her way through exhaust vents again any time soon, but here she was.

“Before we go it,” Bellatrix looked down to Orphne’s large, amber eyes, which were looking up at her expectantly. “Look after yourself while we are down there, do as I or the Dark Lord say, alright?” Orphne nodded.

“Anyone you don’t recognise, burn ‘em.” Bellatrix said, seriously, which had Orphne nodding again. Bellatrix unhooked the lead she had around Orphne’s neck. The chimera shook, stretching her muscles “Ok. Best of luck. Follow behind me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done to the Americans for booting Trump out of office, shouldn't have been there in the first place but glad to see more people came to their senses to vote against him this time.


	38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

Given that there were only four deatheaters (including Voldemort) currently fighting, just using the killing curse was not going to be all that useful. It would be like a muggle taking a very small dagger against a machine gun. If you can only kill one person at a time, and you are outnumbered seven to one, your odds of winning are not good. The age of chivalry was over. It was time to break out the big guns.

This was not a problem for Voldemort, he was a master of the dark arts after all. His arsenal of dark magic was so extensive that he could, if such a whim appealed to him, not use the same spell twice and destroy everyone in that room.

“Imber sanguinis.” He did not need to use the incantation, but he did so, just to see the look of fear in the eyes of the aurors that recognised the curse. A vapour, silken, and white, slithered from the end of the elder wand and towards the group surging towards him. The skin the vapour hit peeled, rippled and flaked. Great crevasses carved themselves into the victim’s flesh, like cracks in dry mud. It was not dry, however. Blood gushed from each hole. A waterfall was an inappropriate description of what was happening, in Voldemort’s opinion. Rather, it was like an adjustable shower head, set to full power.

Dolohov saw what Voldemort was doing, Carrow and Yaxley did not. Dolohov grabbed the others by the collars of their robes to prevent them inadvertently walking into the vapour.

Four aurors did not have such a friend looking out for them. The rest of them left them to their fates: there was nothing that could be done to save them after such an ordeal. It was a lesson hard learned by them during the first war. Several of the younger ones looked on in despair as their friend’s bled to death, but their superiors threw them back into action. They could not afford to stand still.

“Aquam asinum!” Voldemort aimed another curse towards a group of particularly young group of the aurors, none of them could have older than 25, but he had not accounted for the curse being blocked by Aberforth Dumbledore. For a second, as he had only seen him out of the corner of his eye, Voldemort thought he saw the real Dumbledore. He should have known better; he’d seen that it was him before. Still, it was at that moment, as the curse was vapourised by the counter curse, Voldemort made up his mind to kill Aberforth Dumbledore himself. He did not get to kill the other one, this time it would be his pleasure.

Swirling around, Voldemort instinctively aimed for Aberforth’s head. He’d often thought over the last few months that he wanted to have Dumbledore killed again: what a perfect opportunity.

Around him, small battles took place. Carrow duelled the Granger girl and one of the Wealseys simultaneously, twisting around their attacks like a gymnast, her own spells dancing around her like the ribbons they twirl.

Over Aberforth Dumbledore’s shoulder, Voldemort saw Yaxley kill Dodge, the old man’s body clattering to the floor hard, and Yaxley grinning madly before diving back into the fight.

“Agnus dei!” Voldemort didn’t say the incantation out loud. He wouldn’t give Aberforth time to think of the counter curse. It was a curse with Voldemort held close to his heart. It had been one of the spells he was responsible for getting banned from the Hogwart’s duelling club, back when he was in his fourth year. He’s sent it flying straight into Abraxas Malfoy and had shattered all the bones in his leg. He’d found it funny at the time, Abraxas didn’t. Neither did Professor Dumbledore (who was at the time chairman of the club).

Voldemort had taught the spell to Bellatrix in one of the first lessons he had given her in the dark arts. The look of evil glee on her face when she watched the poor muggle’s bone’s break within themselves was one of the things that had first attracted him to her.

A wicked smile crossed Voldemort’s face as the spell hit the inferior Dumbledore directly in the head. His skull shattered immediately. All the plates fell apart from each other, in the exact pattern that they had fused together as a small child. Each plate cracked into ever smaller pieces after this, starting like mosaic pieces and getting smaller and smaller until it was like dust. He was dead instantly. The explosion of gore was merely a firework after the fact.

A scream from behind him, of misery and anger, not pain, forced Voldemort to turn, another curse ready on his lips. It was simple to find who it was, all others were fighting. Dolohov had five aurors cornered between himself and the cage with the dragon inside. It looked like he was struggling, but he was certainly overcoming said struggle. Carrow persisted in her duel, the pile of bodies around her growing. Yaxley was duelling the Weasley girl. 

Potter. He stood, lip snarling in hate, tears of anger on his cheeks, wand pointed toward Voldemort a little way off. But it was not just Potter. To his left stood the traitor, Draco Malfoy. Malfoy did not look dangerous. He looked terrified. Completely and utterly terrified. Perhaps there was a good side of Gryffindor, Voldemort pondered, at least they went down in fire, rather than with a whine or weep. 

“Draco Malfoy.” Voldemort sneered, “Your aunt is very disappointed in you.” Bellatrix would be also be disappointed that she didn’t get to teach him a lesson herself. No matter. He’d just tell her about it when he got back.

“And where is Bellatrix?” Potter butted in, speaking before Malfoy did. He gestured around to the hall, and the suspicious absence of his most loyal follower. “I don’t see her hanging around.”

“That is none of your concern Potter, and I wasn’t talking to you.” Voldemort pointed out. He didn’t know where he thought Bella was. Potter knew about her…condition…Bellatrix had told him that. What did he think that Voldemort had done with her? His opinion mattered not, of course, but there was a small part of him uncomfortable with the idea that anyone would think that he had done something to Bellatrix. “I always had you pegged as a coward, Malfoy, but not as a traitor.”

“I have not betrayed my family.” Malfoy said, his voice a little shakily, lifting his wand in a defensive movement.

“No, your parents are as traitorous as you. I’d ask you to tell Narcissa that she has made the wrong decision to keep her family safe, but I think your corpse would deliver the message better.”

Draco opened his mouth to speak again but no words left him. He looked like he was poised in song, as if operatic notes were about to spring forward from him. Instead, he was enveloped in a green misty light. His knees buckled. Eyes lost their vibrancy. Heart stopped. He fell down dead. He hit the ground with the sound of a ladder, having been kicked away from a wall, landing hard in long grass.

The entire room was silent in shock for a moment. None of them had fired the spell. Potter made direct eye contact with Voldemort, both of them as confused at the other, both their wands unused in their hands.

That was when the laughing began, and Voldemort felt a little sick. All eyes were drawn upwards, to the sound. It was not difficult to see her. A head, surrounded by a mane of white, looked down upon them with a lemon slice smile, through a strategically placed ceiling vent that, in the commotion, none of them had heard being moved. It took a moment for Voldemort to recognised her, really, the change in hair pigment threw him for a second, but when he did, he gritted his teeth. She better fucking not have done what he thought she had done.

Her laugh confirmed who it was. She dragged her wand upwards over her features, and the white hair, age lines, green eyes, they all melted away. Bellatrix was back unto herself.

“Well hello there!” She called out, a tone of comedy in her voice. “Looks like my help was necessary after all!”

Voldemort’s face, and mood, darkened. There would words after this. Very serious words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the gap between chapters has been a bit longer than usual, but I had two exams this week. 
> 
> Also, and I am aware this is ironic for me to talk about given my choice of subject matter, but the serial killed Peter Sutcliffe (better known as the Yorkshire Ripper) died of corona virus today, so the world is just a little bit better.


	39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok - this chapter is long as fuck (like 3000 words) and was originally two chapters however, I didn’t want to stretch the battle out to the point that it would become annoying, so I’ve put them together lol.

The Order flew into complete chaos after seeing Bellatrix in the roof. There were people screaming: but whether it was in fear or confusion it was difficult to tell. Granger shouted orders to look above (Dolohov was able to kill one of the people he was fighting because of the distraction) and an abundance of curses were fired up in her general direction. They all missed, Bellatrix having put a protective bubble around the hole.

Voldemort wanted to scream at her. He wanted to send her back to Naples immediately - how dare she disobey him like this! He would let her get away with a lot. He allowed her far more freedom than he did any other deatheater. He was sleeping with her for fucks sake! She was carrying…oh merlin this was bad. He could not let her get away with this. But Lord Voldemort had far more self-control than that. He could keep the frustration inside, at least for now. Allowing the Order to see the change between them would be terrible. Instead he decided that he would prevent her from being fucking killed - then perhaps kill her himself later. Well, no he would not actually kill her. But he would have a very stern discussion with her.

“Fuck I am going soft.” He thought.

He watched Bellatrix launch several curses out of the roof, then scurry away from the open hole. He didn’t know what she was planning, but he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. Instead of thinking about it, he sent a powerful septumsempra in Potter’s direction, which the boy only just managed to block. Their battle began again.

~~~~~~

Bellatrix and Orphne were together in the roof. Bellatrix had scooted away from the hole to quickly take the disguise off of the chimera and said chimera whined in fear. She had not expected such loud noise, or so many people.

“Look, you’re fine.” Bellatrix said, comfortingly, stoking her fur. The lion fur on her was bristly, but still had a downy softness around her face and tummy. “I’m going to put a protection charm on you, but you don’t really need it. You have special protection in your body anyway.” That was true. Chimera’s were magical creatures after all. Their skin was immune to all spells other than some extreme dark magic, the unforgivables and a few others (spells Bellatrix was sure that the Order would not use). They were virtually impenetrable, one reason why the creatures were so valuable.

Orphne squeaked and hissed, and Bellatrix wished that she understood parseltongue so that she could accurately reassure the chimera. But alas, she could not. Perhaps she would ask the Dark Lord to teach her later? That sounded like a good idea to her – she might need it more in the future, Bellatrix thought, her hand going to her stomach. Not now – she couldn’t think about that now. Instead she quickly applied some protective magic to Orphne.

“Ok, you are not going to like what I am about to ask you to do, but please just go along with it.” Bellatrix sat up on her knees, her hands on her thighs, looking down at the chimera with a smile. Orphne gave the chimera equivalent of a raised eyebrows, backing away, questioning look. Bellatrix laughed.

~~~~~~

Voldemort had Potter in a fierce crutiatus curse, monologing dramatically about how ‘the boy who lived was about to die’ when he heard a loud bang from above them. The sound of squeaking metal filled the hall, sounding similar to the noise a fork makes when dragged across a plate, attacked everyone’s ears and once again drew everyone’s attention. A vent, a different one to the one Bellatrix had revealed herself through, fell from the roof, missing Yaxley by only a few inches. Within the same second, there was a plume of fire forced through the new opening. A whoosh, the sound of beating wings.

“Oh Merlin!” Voldemort muttered, seeing Orphne burst into the room. The young chimera soared through the cold air of the room, shooting fire out in every direction.

“AIM ORPHNE!” He heard Bellatrix cry out from inside the roof. She did as she was told. The chimera swooped down closer to the ground, the spells the Order sent her way bouncing off uselessly. Fire, blue as it came from Orphne’s throat, before going white then yellow, then orange, exploded around her. Flames engulfed a few of the aurors, filling the room with the sizzle of burning meat and screams.

“Hello my lord.” Orphne’s snake head hissed in greeting, in a tone that just did not match the carnage she was causing. Strained, but friendly. Voldemort could not believe that this was happening.

“Hello,” He replied, not for one second letting up on the torture. Potter thrashed and screamed. Alecto clapped for Orphne’s entrance and then sucker punched Hermione Granger, not even bothering with the wand that was in her other hand. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

“Helping?” Orphne said, confused as to his reaction, and gesturing to the fire all around her. Another curse hit her, in the wing, but just bounced off and ricocheted around the room. Most people were able to duck and avoid the beam of the curse. Unfortunately, Dolohov was not.

The curse had lost some of its power as it had bounced across the room, but it had not dispersed it completely. It barrelled straight into his side, sending him flying into the other wall. Dolohov had been cornering a group of aurors and they cheered as he fell. He lay bleeding, unconscious, on the other side of the room.

“Oops.” Orphne looked terrified.

“Yes. Very helpful.” Voldemort spit. In his distraction, the crutiatus curse loosened it’s hold on Potter, and the boy was able to free himself. To his credit, Potter immediately got back to his feet. He would have been terribly sore after that.

“Are we fighting or are you two at a Sunday lunch?” Potter said, snarky and chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to catch his breath, regaining his feet.

“Just because you are incapable of fighting and holding a conversation doesn’t mean that everyone is.” Voldemort responded dryly. Stupid boy.

“Ha, looks like you are losing control of your people!” Potter actually dared to laugh, pointing in the direction of the still unconscious and bleeding Dolohov.

“Go check if Dolohov is still alive, seeing as you are here.” Voldemort ordered Orphne, ignoring the boy. Orphne did as she was told, flittering over to him like a little butterfly. After a moment, she lifted her head up and confirmed that Dolohov was still alive. At least there was that – he supposed.

“Shut up child.” Bellatrix, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere, shot a crutiatus curse at Potter and, while he fell to his knees and squirmed in pain, she scurried over to Voldemort. He was stood, eyebrow raised, clearly beyond livid with her being there. “My lord I am really sorry, but I could not just sit there and wait.” She looked up at him, pleadingly. He was not moved, but over his shoulder she spotted the Granger girl coming up behind him, getting ready to strike. “Ooh, watch out!”

“Where the fuck did you just come from?” He asked Bellatrix, still ducking out of the way and allowing her to engage Granger in a duel. Her doing this released Potter from the crutiatus she had him in, so Voldemort had to keep his eyes on Potter rather than her. Bellatrix was stood at his back, he could feel her dress brushing against his own robes, yet he could not confront her properly about the bullshit she was pulling. He was almost glad; he could barely articulate how angry he was with her at that moment.

“The roof.” Bellatrix said, stating the obvious, then realising that it was not the right thing to say at that exact moment. He glared at her, blocking a spell Potter sent his way. He didn’t even bother to check what the spell was, it was cast weakly anyway. “Sorry, my lord.” She said sheepishly, sending a dark curse hurtling towards Granger, but she was not putting her full attention into the duel. This lack of attention greatly annoyed Granger as she was putting her all into it, and was getting mere scraps of attention back. Her fighting became more erratic as she tried to knock the indifference out of Bellatrix.

“Seeing as you are here now,” Voldemort hissed, looking back over his shoulder to look Bellatrix in the eyes. Red met brown and red looked like they were about to shoot a laser out of the pupils he was so angry. “perhaps you should focus on trying not to get yourself killed?”

“I don’t intend on getting killed, my lord.” Bellatrix said, truthfully, standing her ground, but with a tone of apology in her voice.

“Am I interrupting something?” Potter shouted, waving at the two of them, sarcastically, as if he was waving at someone who had zoned out in a lecture. Bellatrix spotted his golden arm for the first time and a wild cackle escaped her. She deflected another one of Granger’s spells.

“My lord – he’s been ‘disarmed’!” Bellatrix pointed at Potter’s new arm with a proud grin that she’d thought of that pun. Voldemort was not amused. He was not amused at all!

“Bellatrix, be quiet! Kill the mudblood!” He snapped.

“Yes, my lord.” Bellatrix said, gritting her teeth and breathing out through her nose swiftly. Bellatrix had anticipated this response. She was well aware that she was going to anger him by coming to the ministry. She knew it was going to happen but that didn’t make her feel any less terrible actually experiencing his fury. The giddiness she’d been feeling upon first making her grand entrance had died a swift death, and in its place, Bellatrix felt the hole burrowing hole that someone else’s disappointment creates in you. She decided to channel that unpleasant emotion into killing Granger. She had promised the girl that she would and Bellatrix liked to keep her promises.

Bellatrix focusing her full attention to Granger took the girl aback a little. There was a look of pure madness in Bellatrix’s face and Granger’s eyes flicked between the dark witch and Malfoy’s lifeless form, which nobody had bothered to remove. It seemed then that Granger had only just realised the danger that she was in, and she gulped hard. Bellatrix would normally have found such a response funny, but she was in a serious mood.

Bellatrix had noticed this when they had duelled before, but Granger was jerky in her duelling. Clearly, she knew a wide verity of spells, but she was unrefined in her technique. There was something inelegant in her movements, like she was too focused on getting the spells exactly how they were told to perform them in the textbooks. Getting them right was essential of course, but so was anticipating what your opponent’s next move was; so was how to move yourself, dodging and weaving around the opponent’s attacks; and so was misleading your opponent. Granger being so focused on her spellcraft meant that she was constantly on the back foot when it came to the rest of it. And that weakness was one which Bellatrix could exploit.

Bellatrix moved like smoke, twirling around, footwork perfect, light, like a ballerina, trying to throw the girl off of her stride. The spells she cast were pointed, aimed very well towards her neck and heart. Granger blocked and counter attacked, using a complex curse, clearly learned from books and not yet used in battle before. She had done well with it, but it was not as strong as it should have been. Really, it just fizzled. Bellatrix laughed coldly.

“That’s not how you do it, sweetie,” She said, dangerously, moving around her as a lioness, and maneuvering Granger into a corner, “Let me show you how it’s done.” The girl squeaked and tried to duck, but she was not quick enough to block the curse.

The air was siphoned from her lungs in an instant. The wand dropped from Granger’s hand and clattered to the floor. Her hands flew to her throat in a fruitless attempt to regain breath. As Granger choked, face going blue but eyes wild and focused, not able to talk but defiance in her stance anyway. Very Gryffindor, Bellatrix thought. She had to have a little bit of respect for that, the pride the girl displayed. Not enough to spare her, but enough to receive a grim nod.

From behind Bellatrix, someone screamed “no” but Bellatrix paid them no mind.

“Avada kadavra!” She twisted her wrist, flicked the yew wand perfectly, and Granger was absorbed into the green light. Her corpse fell to the ground, as Draco’s had done beforehand. Granger landed on her side, looking like she was asleep, where Draco landed on his face, his body crumpled up inelegantly.

Bellatrix breathed out, a smirk on her face, and turned around to face the rest of the hall. She surveyed the scene, looking to where she would be most use.

Dolohov still lay unconscious, sitting in a puddle of blood, against one wall. There were bodies, from both sides, littered everywhere. Gore lay splattered against the wall and floors. Yaxley had decided not to kill a group of aurors and had instead put them into a bubble, similar to the bubble in which Bellatrix, Dolohov and the Dark Lord had captured the Red Caps in weeks before. They were slamming their fists against the bubble in vein. Carrow was involved in a duel with one of the Weasley boys (Percy, Bellatrix thought).

Orphne had flown into the cage with the large, male chimera and seemed to be trying to bite through the chains that held him down, hissing intently the entire time. They appeared to be having a very intense conversation, and there seemed to be a giddy excitement between them.

The Dark Lord and Potter were duelling. ‘Duelling’ as the two of them were basically trying to out dramatic each other, and Potter was very clearly weeping over the loss of his friend but still trying to fight through it.

Bellatrix took a step, ready to run over and see if Dolohov was ok, when she heard a shuffle behind her. She turned her head slightly, ready to sprint if she needed to. Red hair, a glint of silver, a sudden explosion of pressure on the side of her head, and Bellatrix suddenly found herself on the ground.

After the bright flashes of light had subsided, her vision was spinning, blurry. She saw body, a long piece of metal piping in one hand, and a wand in another. Hand to her head, there was blood on her fingers, but no pain. She supposed that it would come later. There was too much adrenaline in her system at that point. Stunned and shocked, Bellatrix was hit with the realisation that she had not noticed a Weasley. That was embarrassing.

“You goddamn bitch!” A female voice shrieked. Must be Ginny Weasley, Bellatrix thought. She also found herself wondered how badly her head was bleeding. It was going to be so difficult to get it out of her hair later. The matting would be dreadful. Bellatrix groaned, sitting up with difficulty as her head banged like a toddler using a pan as a drum. 

“How original…” Bellatrix said dryly, mildly irritated that Ginny hadn’t thought of something wittier to say. Ginny pressed her wand fiercely up against Bellatrix’s forehead, a snarl on her lips like a rabid dog. Bellatrix wasn’t even scared. There was voice in the back of her head screaming at her to fucking run. The same voice was screaming at her that this is the exact reason that the Dark Lord did not want her to come into the battle. But the stronger, and far more stubborn part of herself, was the part that wanted her to look the girl dead in the eyes. She would not give her the satisfaction of seeing her scramble.

Bellatrix was expecting the cold embrace of the killing curse but instead she saw – whilst her vision was still spinning and slightly blurred – the Weasley girl suddenly be thrown backwards, as if she’d just been hit by a truck, and smashed into the wall behind her. Quite unfortunately for Ginny, she landed on top of the pipe she had smacked Bellatrix with and said pipe went straight through her shoulder with a horrifying crunch, and a howled scream.

“I fucking told you, Bellatrix.” She heard a growl from behind her, and strong arms pulling her to her feet roughly. Her legs felt weak, but she refused to let it show as she turned to face him. He didn’t even look her in the eyes, instead, continuing to hold her up, he shot a killing curse at the still screaming Ginny Weasley. Her face was left in a permeant scream in death. “Go deal with Dolohov.” He whispered harshly into ear, and let her go, pushing her slightly in the general direction of their unconscious associate.

She would do as he had said, not feeling great about her still bleeding head-wound and knowing that he was already extremely angry with her. Head absolutely killing her, and realising at the same time that there wasn’t actually any aurors still fighting (Yaxley had a large number of them trapped in the bubble) and the rest of them were dead. Bellatrix stepped over Leola Snyde’s desiccated corpse as she walked. Such a shame, she thought. Her head hurt so terribly, she pressed her hand to the back of it and it came away covered in blood. That wasn’t good.

She reached Dolohov and sank to her knees awkwardly in front of him, pressing her hand to his neck. It took her a few seconds but she did find a pulse, not as strong as she would have liked but very much still there.

Somewhere in the background she heard Potter shouting something about love and other such bullshit but her head was spinning so badly that he sounded like he was speaking in a different room. Vision darkening, she could hear the Dark Lord responding, a sneer on his lip. Bellatrix sunk down against the wall, the cold floor and Dolohov’s shoulder the only thing she could really feel. She fell into unconsciousness hearing the Dark Lord’s voice, screaming a killing curse like it was a lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you it was going to be a long one lol. That was a rollercoaster! Winterstorm93, I told you there would be death in this chapter XD


	40. Chapter Forty

All was blurry when her eyes reopened. For a moment she was confused as to where she was, and fearful, for the ceiling she saw was white. It reminded her of the roof of a cell and Bellatrix did not sleep on her back, so waking up to see the ceiling was not normal. However, as things cleared up, she breathed out a sigh of relief.

She saw the bumpy artex ceiling, filled with swirls and little pebble-like grooves. They used to make that stuff with asbestos. Bellatrix hoped that her father had not been so stupid as to use that in the roof. She saw the orange glow of the streetlights outside streaming in through the window. She saw the dark scarlet curtains hung over the top of the window. She was in her room. Not the room she shared with the Dark Lord: the one that she kept her clothes in.

Somebody had put her in bed. Bellatrix was laid down, under the sheets and the duvet, her head resting on several layers of pillows. Still dressed in her battle gear, but her shoes had been removed. Feeling a bit crusty and gross, she knew nobody had cleaned her hair while she was out. She was glad about that, Bellatrix liked to do it herself.

There was a terrible pain in her head, on the right side just above her ear. The adrenaline that had kept it from hurting before was gone, and she felt everything. Wanting to see what was happening, Bellatrix sat upwards on her elbows. That did not feel good at all. Even the little bit she had moved vertically had her dizziness levels spiking and an overwhelming sense of vertigo washed over her.

“You have a concussion, lie down.” She heard the Dark Lord say, coldly, from somewhere out of her line of vision. Yes – she could see that. Quite literally as there was still stars dancing on the edge of her peripheral. Determined not to just talk to the ceiling, Bellatrix decided just to move her head, rather than sitting up the whole way.

He was sat in the corner, on the chair that Bellatrix usually dumped her clothes on. Sitting with his foot resting on his other knee, leaning back, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his wand in the other. Having changed since the battle, he was in a white cotton shirt and dark trousers, and some slip-on brogues. He looked so tired. Completely drained, face more grey than usual, dark circles around his red eyes. Voldemort's face was pretty neutral, sitting in his resting face.

Moving her head in his direction had her roll slightly onto the wound and a jolt of sharp pain shot through her head. She hissed.

“Oh yes, and a head wound. Which you would not have sustained if you had just listened to me, and done as I had said.”

‘I told you so’ was not actually said, but that was the vibe.

“I am really sorry,” Bellatrix croaked out, her hand going to the back of her head. Her fingers found the wound, which had been cleaned and patched up. It was no longer bleeding but was not healed completely. Head wounds are difficult to heal magically, given the proximity to the brain.

Voldemort was not a very skilled healer, which he did not like being pointed out. He had experience, given the time he had spent alone working on dark magic, but it was not his strong suit. He did not enjoy doing it. The fact he’d taken the time to do just the little bit that he had done had little butterflies fluttering around her stomach. That mixed with the guilt she was also feeling made a terrible cocktail in her gut.

“No, you are not,” he rolled his eyes, “if you had seen the Weasley and not gotten smacked you would have gloated about how ‘great of a warrior’ you are and insisted that I was wrong for leaving you behind. But look what actually happened!” He gestured to her with his free hand, and then took a sip of his drink.

Bellatrix wanted to refute that, but that was exactly what she had planned on doing, so she just looked down at the little swirling grey pattern on the duvet coverlet. She felt very sick right at that moment, but she wasn’t sure whether it was the concussion or something else.

“I’m sorry for worrying you, my lord.” Bellatrix said quieter, not looking at him.

“You should be sorry for yourself and your complete lack of survival instinct.” He did not shout. His voice was low, calm and vicious. Every syllable was punctuated with calm fury. “You’re irresponsible Bellatrix.” Voldemort punctuated the statement by loudly putting his wand down on the boudoir he sat beside.

Well that hurt. A rusty knife between the ribs. A kick in the gut.

She didn’t think she was irresponsible, nor did she think that her actions were irresponsible. There was no choice, she had to go. What did he expect her to do? Just sit there, twiddling her thumbs, waiting? That would have been torture. All she would have been able to think about would have been the worst possible scenarios. Losing him again would kill her. She would go mad. Last time it had happened she’d ended up in Azkaban for fourteen years. And this time things would be so much worse. Bellatrix did not want to be a mother alone. So, no - she couldn’t have possibly have left him fighting on his own. If anything was to happen to him – she would die.

She did not know how to voice that concern and make him understand.

“Without the cause there is nothing.” Bellatrix chose her words carefully. “If it was over there would be no point continuing down our current path, it just would not be viable. Being on the run is one thing, being on the run with…” her voice faltered a second, “…a baby, or a small child, is entirely different.” She looked up from the duvet, and straight into his eyes. He was staring at her, intensely, not having moved a muscle. “I would say that it is very responsible for me to want to secure a victory, my lord.” Her voice was strained and pleading, begging him to understand.

“We were doing fine without you.” He growled, and Bellatrix felt her heart break. “You took a risk you did not need to take.”

A risk she didn’t need to take? Now, that soldered the broken heart back together with a bubbling anger. Arrogant man! He thought he was so powerful, that nothing could ever harm but history spoke a different story. And Bellatrix refused to allow history to repeat itself.

“Really?” She snapped. Sucking in air quickly, taking a breath ready for a rant, Bellatrix began again before he could say anything else. “Because Leola and Rookwood are both dead and Macnair and Dido are yet to make an appearance, so - ”

“Macnair and Dido caught up with us while you were unconscious.” He cut in. “They underestimated the number of people that would be in the control room and were captured. That’s how the Order knew everyone else was in there. Without **your** help, they escaped and fought their way back out of the ministry to us.”

“Sounds like they caused more problems than I, my lord.” Bellatrix pointed out, her voice biting, pressing her hand to her heart.

“They have been dealt with.” Voldemort's free hand was balled up into a fist, knuckles white. Bellatrix wondered what he had done to the two of them. Given the scarcity of deatheaters at the moment, she doubted that he had killed them. “We are not discussing Crabbe and Macnair at this point Bellatrix.”

“We’re not discussing anything; you’re telling me off like I’m a child!”

“Don’t act like a child and you won’t be treated like one.” That finally moved him. Voldemort uncrossed his legs and put both feet on the floor, turning to face her directly, where before he had been sitting in a position where his body facing the window but he had his head turned to face her. He put the drink down on the boudoir, between himself and the wand.

“I’m not acting like a child.” Bellatrix insisted, feeling a little bit stronger now, and forced herself to sit upright despite the pain and dizziness. “You were outnumbered, we didn’t know how bad the situation was going to be. I didn’t want you to get killed!”

“Like I was in any danger.” He laughed, rolled his eyes and put his arms out. That flippancy pissed her off. She did not want to pull this titbit of information out of her back pocket, but Bellatrix felt that it was appropriate to bring up now.

“I know about the horcuxes, my lord.” She said, and saw the laughter wiped off his smug face.

She’d known about them for years. He’d told her about them in 1978, when he had given her Hufflepuff’s cup to guard. Knowing of their existence was not the bombshell, it was the fact that they had been obliterated. He had not mentioned that Potter was going around destroying them, she didn’t think that he had told anyone, but Bellatrix was no fool: she had figured it out. It was obvious what Potter was doing when she realised that he had been in her vault. She’d seen Nagini’s death. She had seen Voldemort’s pain when the others were destroyed. Bellatrix had held his head in her lap when he had collapsed in the Forbidden Forest.

“You’re not immortal at the moment. Surely that is a cause for concern!”

“I am the greatest dark wizard who has ever lived, with or without the horcruxes.” Voldemort sprang from the seat he had been sat in, leering down at her while she lay there. Bellatrix didn’t even flinch. “I was fine!” He cried out, part way between exacerbation, anger and some other emotion that Bellatrix could not place. Worry, perhaps? “I think a bigger cause for concern is you going into battle while fucking pregnant and nearly getting yourself killed!”

“A head injury won’t cause a miscarriage.” Bellatrix said quietly.

“It can **kill** you!” He retaliated, and Bellatrix waved a hand dismissively. She’d had worse and besides she wasn’t dead so what was the point in bringing it up again? “And how do you know that?” He asked, his tone implying that he didn’t want to hear an answer, rather just to make her feel like she was an idiot. Bellatrix was not going to let him say that without fighting back. She was many things, but an idiot was not one of them. 

“Because I have had a fucking uterus my entire life and had to learn all this shit!” She spat. That comment seemed to make him pause and calm down a little bit. His voice had been raising but he stopped himself. 

“Ok – fair point.” He accepted that, pointing upwards and shaking that hand. She was glad that he didn’t try to argue that he knew more about it that she did, because that level of bullshitery would have broken her. He took a deep breath and sat back down, nowhere near as calm as he had been when Bellatrix had awoken. “But still - ”

He was cut off by a loud bang and a deep hissing noise from the windows that lead to the courtyard. Bellatrix turned her head far too quickly and was wracked with pain once again. She cried out, pressing her hand to her head reflexively. A strange reflex really – what would putting your hand on somewhere that hurt do for it?

“What was that?” Bellatrix asked, through gritted teeth. She assumed that, because of the hissing, Voldemort had something to do with it.

“We have acquired another chimera.” He said, deadpan, not effected by the loud interruption. “It seems the one in the department was Orphne’s father.” Small world, Bellatrix thought. “That is not the important thing right now Bellatrix.”

“No, the important thing is that I killed Granger and the battle was won!” Bellatrix couldn’t understand why he was so angry. She’d gone there to help; the Order had been hit badly and they had won the battle – what was there to be mad about? He looked at her like she was completely insane.

“You were knocked to the floor and the Weasley girl had her wand to your head, and what did you do? Nothing! You just glared up at her!” His voice was raised, but it was more from being passionate than angry. Bellatrix didn’t notice the difference, she thought it was just fury but it was not. That belief blinded her, and she responded sharply. 

“Well I’m not dead, am I?” She said, rolling her eyes and pointing out the obvious, with a biting tongue. That comment, and the accompanying body language, actually seemed to make him angry. Properly angry. He flew back to his feet, pacing from one side of the room to the other, incensed by her.

“Only because I saw what was happening!” He raged. He spoke with his hands, eyes wide.

“Thank you for doing that, and thank you for fixing my head. But please listen to me - ” She had meant to sound sincere, but it had just come off as dismissive.

He butted in, talking over what was going to be another plea for him to let it do. He stopped moving, standing between Bellatrix and the window. His face was obscured by the shadows, he himself blocking out the only light that was illuminating the room.

“Bellatrix how the hell can you be trusted with a baby if you can’t even look after yourself?”

There was silence then.

Taken aback, Bellatrix just stared at him. She had no idea how to respond to that. No idea how to stop the wrenching, torturous feeling stabbing her in the gut. The vice that had clamped itself around her chest, pressing down on her. She wanted to think that he didn’t mean it, that he was just talking out of his ass because he was angry, but even if that was the case it didn’t stop her from feeling like she had been stepped on by a dragon. She was shaking, her hands completely incapable of doing anything. Throat tight, eyes burning, she knew she was about to cry.

“Get out.” Her voice sounded pained. Looking away from him, she lay back down facing in the opposite direction to him, refusing to let him see the face that there were tears on her cheeks.

Realisation seemed to dawn on him for how deeply that had hurt her. He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something, apologise or explain himself, but he shut his mouth again, thinking better of it. He cleared his throat a little.

“Your wand is on the nightstand. Fix your head.” He grabbed the glass he had been drinking from, and his wand, then went to leave. Bellatrix didn’t turn back to face him. She ignored the sound of him opening the door, the pause where he stopped, not sure whether to do as she had said or walk over towards her, but then also the click of the door as he closed it.

There was no noise, just the tapping of his feet on the parquet flooring as he walked away, and the quiet sobs that forced their way out of Bellatrix’s battered form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like pain because it was painful for me to write that too lol.


	41. Chapter Forty-One

It was the first week of September and the nights were still warm. That night it was muggy, starless and far too hot for Voldemort’s liking, but he didn’t care. He needed to get out of the house. If he had still been Tom Riddle, perhaps he would have found a quiet place to sit, smoke and think. But he was no longer Tom Riddle, and he needed a walk.

He slipped out of the house, past the sleeping form of Cygnus, a cup of tea positioned next to him in the frame – where it had come from was a question Voldemort didn’t even bother to ask at that point. He stalked, quiet as a wraith, through the courtyard, past Orphne and her father. They were curled up together, finally asleep, about as happy with life as two animals ever could be. The relief of reunion. The sight of them made Voldemort pause, but only for a moment, as in his sleep the male chimera had placed his wing over the sleeping cub, as a blanket to shut out the world. He did not stay. Instead, pushing open the iron gate, and stepping out into the deserted street.

Tipsy, he had several glasses of whiskey before Bellatrix has awoken, Voldemort shoved his hands into his pockets, and set off into the city. He knew there was a park around somewhere, and decided to try to head towards it.

He knew that he had overreacted – he knew it as that final insult had left his mouth. He’d gone too far. What’s done is done though; he could not take it back. It was not Bella’s fault, he supposed, but there was a small part of him that blamed the fact that he had been unable to kill Potter on her. It was the work of twenty years, the reason he’d been destroyed in the first place, and yet he couldn’t do it. The absolute terror he had felt seeing Bellatrix collapse next to Dolohov, their blood mingling together as they lay there, was too much. The thought that he could have lost her…Potter had been an afterthought. His entire focus had been on ending the battle as quickly as possible so that he could make sure that Bella was alright.

It turned out the park was only a few minutes’ walk away from the house. The gates weren’t shut, he just walked straight down the long tarmac path, lined on either side with palm trees. It was very dark. 

The glint of the pipe was what had caught his eye. Glowing in the green lamplight, the pipe shone in his peripheral. Everything else had fallen to the wayside, feeling like a camera lenses where the background is blurred, and he just couldn’t get to her fast enough. Potter had been spouting some bollocks, but Voldemort could barely hear it. All he heard was the crunch of pipe hitting skull, the shriek that escaped Bellatrix, and the sound of her crumpling to the ground. He was certain his heart had stopped then.

Potter had screamed, hysterical, weeping, when Voldemort had killed Ginevra Weasley. He had fired several spells in Voldemort’s general direction, but all had missed. In that moment, he thought that maybe he might understand what Potter was feeling. He would have done so much worse if Bella had been the one lying there on the floor.

Using legilimacy, Voldemort had announced to Carrow and Yaxley that they were leaving, and for one of them to grab Dolohov, while he grabbed Bellatrix. They did as he told them to, and, after hissing the command to Orphne, and by extension her father, whom she had freed by that point, the group of them disaperated, leaving Potter weeping on the floor, holding Ginny’s head on his lap.

Carefully he had carried Bellatrix up through the house, ignoring Cygnus crying out, asking what had happened to her, placed her down onto her bed and set to work on healing her head. Before that, there was blood pouring out all over him. There was blood all over his hands, his clothes, and he was terrified. Logically, he knew that head wounds bleed significantly more than other wounds, that she was fine, it was normal. Inwardly, it sent him spiralling.

Knowing that she would not wake up for a while, he’d slipped into the bathroom to clean up. Then he’d grabbed the bottle of whiskey that they had found under the bed when they had arrived and started drinking.

It was then when the anger had begun. He would not be feeling like this if Bella had just fucking listened to him. She wouldn’t have been at risk if she had just stayed at the damn house. If she’d just done as he had told her he would have killed Potter – he had the perfect opportunity and he had been unable to do anything about it. He blamed Bellatrix for hurting the cause, and hurting himself. He had just been sitting there, watching her breathing, getting angrier and angrier (as well as drunker and drunker as he sipped on the whiskey).

Why had he left the department when he did? Why did he feel like there was something was dying in his broken soul on seeing her like that? She would have been ok if he had left her a moment longer, just long enough to kill Potter, but he had not thought of that. All his mind had gone to was saving her, and saving…it. He had to admit, since their conversation about sons and daughters that morning, the idea of the child had been playing on his mind. The thought of not even losing Bellatrix, but losing the child because she had come into battle had him feeling sick too. And furious with her. Absolutely furious.

But now he sat on a bench in the middle of the park in front of a statue, lungs filled with crushingly humid air. The statue before him was of a man, dressed in Roman armour with a partial toga wrapped around his waist. The statue pointed out and upward with his right hand, an austere expression plastered over his face. Emperor Augustus, he believed it was. Voldemort wondered whether the man had expected his statues to still be around 2000 years after his death, or if that was too big for a muggle to imagine.

Voldemort could imagine it for himself, millennium in the future, still worshipped by his people. He saw his statue accompanied by other figures. A woman, unlike the Roman statues of women standing demure and bashful. Rather she would look the observer dead in the eyes, challenging them to doubt her power, and that observer refusing to do so, as they would know that Bellatrix Le-Strange would outrank them no matter what. There would be another one too, depicting the yet unknown child in their prime, powerful, loyal and beautiful. An heir to end mortality.

He was still angry at the situation Bellatrix had put herself in, but he realised then that she had thought exactly the same thing that he had been thinking. She had been just as worried about his safety.

“Without the cause there is nothing. If it was over there would be no point continuing down our current path, it just would not be viable.” Bellatrix had said, and she was right. Breathing in the night air, she was right. An overly businessy way of saying it, but perfectly true. Immortality compromised – he was still unsure as to how she had figured that out though – outnumbered, in the lion’s den: of course she would be worried about the outcome. It was only natural.

It would be hypocritical if he was to say that he would have wanted to sit back and wait for news when he knew he could have been there himself, securing a victory. Voldemort would have hated that. He had left the work for his followers in the past, but not when it was such an important mission. It would be torture.

Bellatrix would have felt the same way, Voldemort knew that. And he felt a little bit of shame for his actions, something he did not feel often and really did not like the feeling. Shame and guilt were not a vibe for him, and he needed to get it out of his system. As much as he did not like it – he knew that he needed to apologise to her. 

He had been sitting on the bench for quite a long time, so long that the sun was just beginning to rise up over the horizon. Sighing, he got back to his feet. He needed to get back to the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found an audio book on Youtube of Christopher Lee reading 'The Raven' and it is perfect.


	42. Chapter Forty-Two

Bellatrix had been silently crying for three hours. There were tears on her face while she had fixed her concussion. There were tears on her face as she had washed her hair. There were tears on her face as she had walked down the stairs to make herself a cup of tea. Walking into the kitchen, Bellatrix waved her wand and set the kitchen appliances to work, while she sat down upon the stools in there.

The chess board was still set up on there from before. That morning felt like so long ago. In a fit of emotion, somewhere between misery, rage and humiliation, Bellatrix pushed the chess board off the island violently. Pieces scattered everywhere. The crown from the black king snapped off and pinged across the room separate from its body. Bellatrix croaked out a dry sob and pressed her face into her hands. 

She was keeping this baby. As he had walked off, she was sure of it. Voldemort be damned, whatever he thought about her, she was keeping it. He could be in their life or not, Bellatrix did not care – well, she did really but in her indignation, she repressed that emotion – she was going to keep this baby.

Magically, the cup was filled with warm tea – lady grey this time, Bellatrix being sick of ginger tea and not feeling physically nauseous at that point – floated over to her and landed politely next to her arm. Seizing it between long finger, Bellatrix leaned into the warmth of the cup, her elbows on the table. She pressed the cup to her forehead, her eyes shut, breathing deeply and slowly. The tears had stopped. Cheeks drying from the heat of the cup.

How long she had been sat there was a mystery to everyone, most of all Bellatrix herself. She came back to her senses, mug of tea lukewarm in her hands now, upon hearing a pained groan from the living room. Sitting up, taking a swig of the tea, Bellatrix looked in the direction of the door.

She expected the Dark Lord to walk around the door. A litany of statements, explaining her decision popped into her head: ranging from just shouting at him and hiding in the toilet until he calmed down to just kissing him, mumbling an apology she didn’t feel like giving and whispering it in his ear. None of these plans were required. She was disappointed. It was Dolohov.

Wrapped in bandages, eye swollen shut in a terrible purple bruise, cuts all over his face, Dolohov looked like he had been hit by a semi-automatic truck. He grunted, and stumbled over to the island, using it to lean upon. His hands shook, but other than that he was able to disguise his pain perfectly.

“You look like how I feel.” Bellatrix said, miserably. Dolohov made a noise that might have been an attempt at a laugh. “Do you want me to heal you up?” She asked, with a sigh, wand in hand.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Le-Strange.” Dolohov sounded terrible too. Bellatrix beckoned him over, looking like a stern teacher, and he complied. Dragging the yew wand over Dolohov’s eye first, the swelling went down immediately, with the bruising going down too. He blinked a watery blue eye weakly, as if worried the pain would return when he did so. It did not. “Why do I feel like we’ve done this before?” Dolohov tried to joke.

“Stop getting yourself hurt and you won’t need to be healed up, dumbass.”

“Pot meet kettle.” Dolohov laughed. She flipped him off and continued to heal up his injuries, silently.

Someone, and by the skill (or lack thereof) of the healing Bellatrix suspected that person may have been Carrow because her healing skills were atrocious, had partially healed Dolohov’s side wound. Just far enough that he wouldn’t bleed to death. They had left him with a great deal of serrated tissue and bruising that looked like a topographic map.

“What’s up with you?” Dolohov asked after a couple of minutes of silence.

“It doesn’t concern you.” Bellatrix said quietly, finishing up the healing by poking Dolohov in the ribs with the end of the wand, while the wound was magically closing. He cried out and swore. Jumping back from her like a cat, his reaction actually made Bellatrix crack a smile.

“Well that wasn’t very nice, was it?” Dolohov rubbed his side, which had finished the healing now, and all was left was a small white scar. She merely shrugged, what did it matter to her?

“I’m not very nice.” Bellatrix said, returning to her seat. “Your new hair looks stupid, by the way.” She insulted him, as a way to make herself feel a bit better. It didn’t help, Dolohov just laughed at her. It made her feel worse.

“At least you’re honest,” Dolohov, walked over to the fridge and pulled out a half-finished bottle of white wine. Bellatrix knew he didn’t really like white wine, so was unsure as to what he was doing. Pouring himself a large glass, he turned back to her. “I’d offer you a glass, but…” He trailed off; a smirk plastered over his stupid face.

“Fuck off.” Bellatrix spat and Dolohov laughed again.

“I was surprised when you turned up, I thought you’d be oh so protective of your little family.” Dolohov was enjoying making her squirm. He leant against the closed door of the fridge and gestured to her with the wine glass. Bellatrix glowered at him, darkly, eyes flicking between him and the knife block. How quickly could she get them out of the block and slash his throat?

“I’m not having this conversation with you.” She decided against the murder, as it would just cause more problems than it would solve. Instead she just sat there growling.

“But, then again, I guess you were being.” He ruminated, with false philosophy. “Did he appreciate it Le-Strange?”

“Leave it Dolohov.” Bellatrix spat, his questioning hitting too close to home straight into the raw and broken part of her soul. Dolohov heard something in her voice other than hate, and raised his eyebrows.

“Ah,” He sighed, “I’m guessing not.”

“Look – I am not discussing my personal life with you!” Bellatrix announced, seizing her tea once again and drank it as if the liquid was going to wash away how uncomfortable she felt at that point. She didn’t know how he did it – Dolohov was not a mind-reader, so Bellatrix had no idea how he kept figuring out what she was thinking. Frankly it was a little concerning. Bellatrix had no idea how he had seen the torturous feeling in the gut that had refused to go away, but she did not appreciate the fact that he was able to see through her so quickly. Dolohov laughed at her.

“Fine, fine.” He put his hands up in defeat, but then much quieter he added, “personal life with the Dark Lord…”

“Do you want to lose a hand?” Bellatrix slammed hers down on the table, and the final remaining piece from the chess board fell off the table. The tiny, white pawn clattered to the wood floor, pathetically.

“Not really.” Dolohov replied. The look of pure hate in her eyes made Dolohov take an exaggerated step backwards from her. He was loving this.

“Then shut the fuck u-.” Bellatrix began to tell him off when the front door slammed shut. It was not hard, but enough to make the mirror on the side of the wall shake. Both of them looked towards the door: Bellatrix looking as though she had dropped a plate in the middle of a family party, Dolohov looking highly entertained. There were a few seconds of silence where Bellatrix and Dolohov stared at the door, waiting, breath held in. Bellatrix felt somewhere between angry, miserable and relieved to hear that he was ok, and hadn’t run off.

Voldemort appeared around the door, in the midst of removing a disguise from his features. He blinked in mild surprise that the two of them were just staring at him as soon as he had returned to the house. He made direct eye-contact with Bellatrix, and there was a look of understanding and ‘we need to talk now’. 

“Dolohov, leave us.” Voldemort commanded, quietly.

“Of course, my Lord. Congratulations, by the way.” Dolohov sped out of there, with a cheeky grin on his face. The speed was definitely mainly there to get out of the way before one of either Voldemort or Bellatrix killed him. He was right to, Bellatrix chucked the mug she was holding at the back of his head, missed, and the mug shattered against the wall with a splash of milky tea.

“Wha-?” Voldemort was utterly confused and ducked out of the way of the spiralling ball of china she had sent flying. His eyes went to the mess, then to the place that Dolohov had just vacated, then back to Bellatrix.

“I did not tell him – he worked it out!” Bellatrix explained before Voldemort could say anything. She was terrified that, after what had happened before, he would just get angry again and the whole thing was going to explode.

“How – wait, it doesn’t matter now.” He was going to ask, but just waved his hand and decided that he would just interrogate Dolohov later. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, my lord.” She stopped herself from saying ‘obviously’, thinking that it would just make it worse, but that was how Bellatrix was feeling. He was about to speak then but, after hearing a noise from behind them, he turned around and spat.

“I know you are still there Dolohov, go to bed!” There was no arguing with that tone, it was a ‘do as I say or we’re going to have a serious problem’ voice. Dolohov shuffled away, trying to stifle his laughter, and said:

“Yes, sir, my apologies.” As he walked up the stairs.

After waiting until they had heard Dolohov’s bedroom door shut, Bellatrix and Voldemort turned back to each other tensely. Bellatrix did not look him in the eyes and Voldemort looked just at the top of her head. That wasn’t hard – she was a lot shorter than him. Breathing in quickly, Voldemort was about to start talking, but Bellatrix didn’t want to hear him say anything that might make her feel even worse. She had made her decision. His reaction be damned. Bellatrix just wanted to get it over with. 

“Before you say anything,” Bellatrix said, putting a hand up to stop him from interrupting her, “I need to say this. **You** may think that I am irresponsible but I am going to keep this baby. I am not reckless – I will be just fine. You don’t need to be involved if you do not want to, but I am going to have this child and - ”

“Bella...”

“I won’t tell the others that it’s yours if you don’t want - ” Her voice turned to a plead then, not wanting to listen to him say anything against her plan. There was no way that she was giving it up. Images of a baby cuddled up close to her, beautiful with her hair and the Dark Lord’s cheekbones; a daring warrior to fight alongside; a little helper, a little minion – she had considered the future and Bellatrix flat out refused to give that up now. She already felt connected to the little one, and there was no way that she was losing them now.

“Bella…” He tried again to cut in, but once again she talked over him, desperate for him to actually listen to her.

“I can tell them it is Rodolphus’ – it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility – ” She threw out the idea desperately, as if disconnecting him from the situation would make him more likely to agree. It was true – she could just add five weeks onto her due date. Pretend that she was further along than she was, and then pretend like she is overdue at the end. It would be fine – nobody (aside from Dolohov but it would be simple enough to bully him into silence) would be any the wiser.

That comment seemed to shake him, and he jumped in over her, stopping her from saying anything else that may be unfortunate.

“Bellatrix! Hang on – you’re getting ahead of yourself.” He put a hand on her shoulder, as much to anchor himself as well as stopping her from continuing down that train of thought. He seemed to collect his thoughts for a moment, and in that time, Bellatrix just looked up at him expectantly. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do if he said something inconvenient, but it would not be good.

Voldemort sighed. “I apologise for calling you irresponsible. I didn’t mean it. I had been drinking, I should not have said that. It was cruel, I apologise.”

It sounded like the apology had been ripped from him – like an infected tooth. As if someone had tied him down and ripped his fingernails off. It certainly didn’t sound like something he wanted to be saying. Bellatrix was not sure that she had ever heard him genuinely apologise before, and they had known each other for twenty-nine years now. It seemed so unnatural coming from him – she didn’t believe it.

“You apologise?”

“Yes.” He said, looking like he’d been sucking on a lemon, trying to hide the discomfort actually speaking those words out loud caused him. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, scrunching up her eyebrows at the same time. Crossing her arms, she looked him up and down, trying to see whether he was screwing with her or not.

“You never apologise.” Bellatrix pointed out. He removed his hand from her shoulder and shrugged, awkwardly, not looking her in the eyes. Bellatrix felt vindicated seeing him squirm, she was glad to see that he realised that she was right, reasonable and justified. Him being, well **him** , did not stop her feeling that satisfaction.

“It is appropriate right now.” Voldemort admitted.

“You’ve had me crying for hours, you bastard.” If he thought that she was just going to let him off immediately, he had another thing coming. There had been a time, a time quite recently if she was completely honest with herself, that Bellatrix would have thrown herself at his feet, sobbing with gratitude that he was offer her any sort of apology. Azkaban did things to her – Bellatrix was very aware of how she would have reacted immediately having gotten out of the place. However, she had a little more self-respect now, and she was not going to roll over and let him think she forgave him instantly.

“I am sorry Bella.” Voldemort gulped, but sounded a lot more sincere that time, actually looked her in the eyes. “And, I…um…I also apologise for saying that you were too irresponsible to look after our child. You’re the only person I would ever even consider having a child with.”

Well, Bellatrix didn’t expect him to say that. Tonight really had been a whirlwind, she thought. Maybe it would be fine? He did not appear to be trying to talk her out of her decision, or abandon her, or guilt her. Perhaps everything would be okay?

“I mean – would anyone else consider having a child with you, my lord?” Bellatrix said, a light smirk on her face as she said so. Her tone reveled the forgiveness she was on the verge of giving. On the verge. She was not quite there yet. Let him work a bit more. She’d been made to feel terrible; he could deal with a little bit of teasing.

“Don’t push it.” He said, but he found himself fighting smile that was trying to creep over his features.

“I’m just saying…there isn’t exactly a queue…” Bellatrix gestured around to the empty room around them.

“Well not at this exact moment no, but once I am in control of the country.”

“What?” Bellatrix laughed at the absurdity. She was very aware that her interest in him was not particularly normal. That self-awareness didn’t stop her loving him of course – it was just an observable fact. “As soon as you’re in control there will be women crawling out of every pavement crack desperate for you to knock them up?”

“Stranger things have happened.” He joked, sardonically, and Bellatrix rolled her eyes affectionately. “But even if that did happen, you are the only person I would ever consider having a child with Bella. I am really sorry.” It was true. Bellatrix Le-Strange was the only person in the world that Voldemort could ever see as remotely equal to him. And, that equality was what stopped him being angry with her for her cheek.

“I’m sorry too, I should have considered that going into battle would upset you.” Bellatrix reciprocated, deciding to leave the bitterness behind her. She accepted his apology, partly because she had never seen him actually try to ask for forgiveness before - what did Lord Voldemort need forgiveness for? - and partly because she just didn’t want to linger on the misery anymore. There was nothing she wanted more than to just move on, and curl up in bed now.

“Yeah – please don’t do that again. I think I might have a heart attack.” He took her into his arms then, Bellatrix resting her head on his chest. They stood together in the dirty kitchen, the sun slowing rising through the large windows, his arms wrapped around her, her hands resting on his chest too.

“Well we wouldn’t want that – would we?” Bellatrix said into him. A weight felt like it had been lifted from her shoulders.

“No, that would not be fun.” He huffed a little laugh.

For a few minutes, they stood there together, silently, just holding each other. As the light gently rose through the grey sky, it was very quiet for once. Rustling leaves from the lemon tree in the courtyard, the scream of an owl and the occasional beep from muggle cars. Very calming, Bellatrix thought, although more calming to her was the feeling of him strong against her.

“I’m really tired.” He said, voice gravelly, and Bellatrix could feel the vibration of him talking through his chest. She was too. Apparently, a vicious head wound does not have the same affect as REM sleep. She did not wake rested.

“I bet. Have you slept at all?”

“No.”

“It’s only five.” Bellatrix saw the grandfather clock leaning against the wall from the side of her eye. It was actually twenty-to-five, but she that was a long phrase that she did not want to say at that point. She looked up from his chest, to look him in the eyes. “Want to go sleep till the meeting begins?”

“Yeah come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long one lol - I hope you enjoy asshole Dolohov and reconciliation.


	43. Chapter Forty-Three

They did go to bed. The meeting was scheduled to begin at eleven – they had five hours for sleep and an hour to get everything else done. Voldemort was pretty sure that he could push the meeting back to 11:30 if he really needed to, but that would annoy some of the others. He didn’t care about their annoyance, but he did like to be prompt. It was a matter of principle. If he started being late, the others might think they could get away with it too.

Bellatrix was warm in his arms as he awoke. He had wanted to hold her close as, even though she seemed to be fine, he was still shaken by the experience of the day. Legs entangled, held tightly as if scared that she would slip away from him if he let her go, his head resting against hers. He could feel her heartbeat and the tenseness leaving her muscles as she drifted off to sleep. They had fallen asleep quickly, both exhausted, but Voldemort had awoken first. Just lying there, eyes still closed, he breathed in the scent of her.

She’d washed her hair while he’d been out, and the sent of the mango she had used. To be fair – everyone smelled like mangoes right now. It seemed that Cygnus Black had stocked the house with about a year’s worth of mango related bathroom products before he’d died. Voldemort had nothing against mangos – in fact he actually quite liked them – but this seemed a bit extensive.

“Mornin’.” Bellatrix mumbled into his chest, with a little sniff. He replied the same, and pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face. She looked up at him, dark eyes still filled with sleep, with a warm smile. “What time is it?”

“Ten thirty.” Voldemort stole a glance at the bedside clock. That did not leave them much time. Bellatrix realised this, and groaned, with clear irritancy that she had to move. He kissed her then, as a good morning and as an apology for making her wake up, but hey, if he had to wake up then so did she. Bellatrix purred against him and, when they pulled apart, smiled and wiped the sleep from her eyes. “You can go back to bed when the meeting is over.” Voldemort surprised himself with how soft his voice was then.

“Only if you join me.” She smirked, wiggling her eyebrows. He huffed a little in laughter, but was genuinely considering it.

Bellatrix detangled herself from him and stretched her arms as she sat up. Hair a mess. she had commandeered one of his shirts, despite the abundance of nightwear there was in the house, and it looked very fetching on her.

“I need to pee.” She said, crawling off the bed.

“Thanks for announcing that, Bella.” He said, sarcastically. She didn’t reply, instead just slipping quickly into the ensuite.

He was not proud of himself, but Voldemort fell back asleep after Bellatrix left. Really, he should have gotten up but it would only take a few seconds for him to get dressed, and he assumed Bellatrix would wake him up when she got back. He was unsure as to how much time had passed when his eyes reopened, but the first thing he saw was Bellatrix standing between him and the (still curtained) window.

Bellatrix stood at the mirror, just in her bra and underwear, looking at herself. It was quite evident now that she was pregnant. The bump was small, and easily concealed for the moment, but there was no denying what it was. Voldemort watched as her fingers gently dragged over her skin, as if she was amazed that it was actually happening. Voldemort certainly was amazed, and more than a little terrified. Not that he was willing to let her know about that.

“How many weeks are you now?” He asked, voice gravelly, blinking away the sleep, sitting up against the headboard. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t even give a vague estimate of when it would have been. He was not even sure whether it was before or after the battle of Hogwarts.

Bellatrix jumped, suddenly hearing his voice surprising her for a second.

“Somewhere between twelve and fifteen, but I would have to actually get that checked by someone who knows what they’re talking about.” She stopped looking at herself, instead grabbing her clothes. In her arms, she held a button up shirt and a long-ish skirt – it was loose and flowy, befitting of the end of summer.

It was quite funny to Voldemort that she couldn’t be sure. He had no idea either. It could be one of many. He counted how many months that was – about three. Ok, so that was after the battle. He still had no idea.

“We’ll make you an appointment. Somewhere discrete.” He knew of a clinic in Austria that was open for that sort of thing – although he only knew of it because one of his earliest deatheaters had gone there to deal with an…issue…that he had picked up from someone. He would have to look into it.

Bellatrix stepped into her skirt, then turned back around to face him, with a pleased smile.

“Will you come with me?” Bellatrix asked, looping a belt around her waist.

“Do you want me to?” He was not sure whether it was a good idea. If they were caught there together that would cause a lot of questions from whomever caught them. But, then again, if she went alone and was caught, that would be a lot worse. 

“Of course, I do. You’re just as responsible for this as me.”

“Good point.” He shrugged. Looking to the clock, he sighed. He really couldn’t put off getting up anymore, and grunted as he stood up. There was some of his robes draped over a chair in the corner. They were clean: nobody had been bothered to put them away. Voldemort got to his feet and started to ready himself for the day. “I can’t say that I know all that much about pregnancy really. I’ve never had to think about it before.”

He knew the basics of course but the sex education (and all related topics) during his time at Hogwarts was awful – it just was not discussed. The genders had been segregated and the boys were told ‘wait until marriage’ but were still taught a simple contraceptive spell. That was it. He had to learn the rest of it through trial and error on his own. Voldemort had no idea what the girls had been taught but he doubted that it was any more rigorous.

“Did you not learn about it at Hogwarts? We did.” Bellatrix said, a little shocked. Good to hear things had improved since his time.

“No – but I was there in the 40’s, so…” He shrugged. Bellatrix laughed, buttoning up her shirt as she did so, clearly stuck in a memory.

“Our sex ed class was hilarious.” She grinned, and finished with the buttons, and turning to fixing the collar of the shirt in place. “Madame Abbott was in the middle of dealing with the aftermath of one of the veriteserum incidents so Slughorn had to give all the fourth, fifth and sixth year Slytherins the talk.” Bellatrix was taken over by giggles, thinking back to what had happened.

The very thought of Slughorn, of all people, his stupid moustache twitching in discomfort as he spoke, addressing three year groups worth of students and trying to teach that particular subject was highly entertaining to Voldemort. He had never been a particularly graceful person – very well connected, and a pretty good teacher but never elegant – so Voldemort was sure that it had been quite the event.

“Rabastian made it his mission to make it as uncomfortable for Slughorn as possible.” She continued after regaining some composure. “He filled the question bucket with the most disturbing fetish questions ever. I hadn’t even heard of most of that stuff before – so it actually did end up being quite educational.” 

That 100% sounded like something Rabastian Le-Strange would do. The man was ridiculous – much more chaotic than his brother. Voldemort had considered having him killed on a number of occasions because of Rabastian’s habit of ruining missions with wild-card moves. He only survived because when things went right, they went very well indeed. It was a shame he was dead.

“Now – Slughorn’s face during that discussion is something I need to see.” Voldemort laughed too. He began to get dressed, facing away from Bellatrix as he did so.

“I’ll show you the memory after the meeting if you want.” He heard her say from over his shoulder. There was a clunk, which Voldemort was pretty sure was the wardrobe door opening and shutting. Then there was the sound of Velcro, as Bellatrix stepped into her sandals. 

“Yes, definitely.” Voldemort agreed, having finished getting dressed, and popping into the bathroom. They continued the conversation from either side of the bathroom door. Blinking quickly and rubbing his still tired eyes, Lord Voldemort walked over to the sink and switched on the cold tap.

“I do remember one thing we were told though. Slughorn was comparing foetuses to fruit – not sure why but hey – and at month three he compared it to a lemon.” Bellatrix’s voice could be heard over the sound of the water. He hoped that the cold water to face would wake him up enough to be his regular self during the meeting. It did little to help, so he sighed, and grabbed his toothbrush.

“Like in size, weight or taste?” He said, putting toothpaste on the bristles and sticking it under the tap.

“I’m assuming not taste.” He heard Bellatrix laugh.

“Never know with him.” Voldemort said dryly, and stopped replying as he brushed his teeth.

“Apparently it already has fingernails.” Her voice sounded so far away, like she was stood on the other side of a ravine. It wasn’t just her standing far away from him, she was, on the other side of the room looking out of the window to the busy street, but also because her mind was far away. Scrubbing his teeth, he was trying to think about how on earth they were going to do this.

He spat out the toothpaste after he had finished and looked up again back in the mirror. He could see Bellatrix through the open door. She was not facing him, instead she fiddled with an earring while continuing to look out of the window. He moved towards her, and out of the bathroom.

“Bella, a decision needs to be made on what we are going to tell the others.” Voldemort said, leaning against the doorway to the bathroom. Bellatrix nodded, still not looking at him, crossing her arms. 

“I know.” She sighed. “I said it last night, if you want me to, I’ll tell them that it is Rodolphus’. You have a reputation to uphold and all that.” Well, Voldemort hadn’t thought she was being serious about that, but it was true. He did have a reputation – a reputation as an inhuman warlord. Someone so cut off from the rest of humanity that there was no way that he would be with anyone. It would certainly be a…surprise…to everyone else.

“I am not going to leave you to do this by yourself Bella.” He insisted. If he told her to, they both knew she’d do it. But there was no way in hell that Voldemort was going to do that. The only way that he knew for certain that his child would not betray him is to be in their life. History would not repeat itself. He would not become his own father. He would never allow that to happen.

“That’s not what I’m saying, my lord.” Bellatrix turned to face him again then, her face determined but calm. “What I mean is that I could tell the others that it is Rodolphus’ to save face publicly, but just continue as normal behind closed doors.”

“That could work, I suppose.” An old-fashioned technique to be sure, but that didn’t mean that it would be ineffective. Still, doing that did not sit well with him, it felt wrong. “But they would get suspicious if I was seen hanging around you and the baby.”

“They already make rumours about us anyway.” Bellatrix shrugged. “Most of them don’t really care, because it doesn’t affect them anyway. And, even if there were rumours, most wouldn’t believe it anyway. They’re too scared of you to ask you to your face.” Bellatrix did not look particularly happy with the situation but she did seem to have come to have a grim determination about it.

“Yeah, but then when the child starts speaking parseltongue everyone’s suspicions would be confirmed.”

“Tell the child not to speak in parseltongue in public.” Bellatrix offered.

“Yeah, that’s not going to work on an infant.” He knew that one of the things that had biased Mrs Cole against him when he was a child was when he started speaking parseltongue as a toddler. Apparently to the untrained ear parseltongue sounds like speaking in tongues – but he knew Mrs Cole was not particularly religious, so she would not have thought he was a demon. He supposed it would have been strange to her though.

“I don’t know – Andromeda’s daughter was a metamorphagus without either of her parent’s being one, magical abilities can just remerge sometimes.” Hearing her speak of Andromeda so casually was strange. She never spoke of her sister in an even vaguely sisterly manner.

“Bit of a coincidence though – that your child just so happens to have the same rare ability as your master? Right?” He did not think this was a good idea.

“Stranger things have happened.” She repeated what he had said the night before, with a smirk.

“You are right though. It would certainly change my reputation.” He wasn’t sure whether that would be a bad change to his reputation or not. On one hand, the whole ‘no connections to people ever’ part of his reputation would be shattered, gone, but that may not be that big of a sacrifice. Their child would be unstoppable. A brilliant, loyal warrior. That would not be bad – that would not be bad at all.

“Exactly. I don’t want to screw any of your plans over if there is a viable alternative.” Bellatrix said. There was that too – he supposed. There were pros and cons with this situation. The Order would be gunning for Bellatrix and the child even more than they already would be if the truth was out there. Perhaps it would be safer? Perhaps it would be better for everyone?

“Ok. Yeah, that is an option.” He nodded. “Do you really want people to think you’re pregnant by a dead man?” Voldemort asked, incredulous. The idea just felt wrong.

“If it will help you, my lord, yes.” Bellatrix said, very seriously. There was no arguing with her there: she left no room for manoeuvre in her eyes.

“You truly are my most loyal Bella.”

“I love you.” Bellatrix said, not scared as she had been before when a confession had slipped out of her. She said it because it was true, a statement of fact rather than a grand gesture.

Overwhelmed, Voldemort did not know how to respond to that. Nothing he could think of sounded like an appropriate response.

“Um, shall we head to the meeting, now?” Was what he went with. She sighed, rolling her eyes affectionately, and agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah – writing them being domestic is hard – hence why it has taken so long to put up this part lol


	44. Chapter Forty-Four

It may not have what it used to be, but Voldemort found himself a little bit pleased with their new meeting room. Sure, the chairs may not match: sure, the table may be shorter than the old one; sure, the room may be too light for his taste and sure, Cygnus may be leering over everyone, listening intently. However, they had made it work. They had adapted, evolved, and he couldn’t help but feel a little pride that they had been so successful in that.

Back when they had first established the room, Bellatrix had been captured. There had been a hole without her. He didn’t want anyone else sitting in her usual spot. Nobody else deserved it. This afternoon, all was back to normal. She sat in her rightful place at his left. Bellatrix was clearly in a pretty good mood; holding her chin up, she sat with casual posture, a smirk on her face.

The rest of the fools sat at intervals down the table. Alecto Carrow and Dido Crabbe (Dido looking decidedly worse for wear, her left eye swollen shut) sat across from each other, looking down at the table guiltily. Macnair sat with an arm in a sling, not looking at him, and instead fiddled with a button on his coat.

Dolohov, as punishment for his lack of forethought, had been forced to sit on the cheap, white plastic chair that was usually reserved for Umbridge. She had an upgrade and for the first time had actually been given a proper chair. It had been down to Dolohov that he had not brought the woman with him to Ministry. Looking back, perhaps that had been a mistake – Umbridge was deeply acquainted with the layout of the ministry – however given how she had shown herself to be completely useless in a battle, that was the **only** part of the whole ordeal that Voldemort was willing to let slide.

“Well,” Voldemort began, and the deatheaters sitting at the table flinched involuntarily. “it seems that the lot of you are completely incompetent.” He hissed, very serpentine, and took great enjoyment in the looks of pure fear that was plastered on the faces of his remaining follows. “How do you keep getting yourselves into these situations? Had Cygnus not overheard the traitors in Malfoy manor talking about your demise, all of you would be dead! Had Bellatrix and I not made it there in time, you would all be dead!”

From the wall, Cygnus nodded in thanks for the mention. Bellatrix smirked; pleased as punch. They had the same facial expression, and it struck Voldemort how similar the two of them looked in that moment. The House of Black – the house of inflated egos.

“So – Dolohov,” Voldemort turned to the man with a viciousness in his voice that had everyone shivering with its frostiness. Dolohov clenched his jaw, a vein popping in his temple that would ordinarily have been hidden by his long hair. No more. “why don’t you share with the group exactly how you managed to fail so spectacularly? I’m sure that we are all very interested in what exactly happened.”

Dolohov cleared his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Voldemort saw Bellatrix shift forward in her seat, eyes wide, biting her lower lip subtly, very excited to see Dolohov punished for his indiscretions.

“Well, my lord, it appears that I did not foresee the extent of the defences in the ministry, and for that I deeply apologise.”

“Is it not realistic to think that the ‘lion’s den’ so to speak would be very highly guarded?” Voldemort stuck the knife in deeper, with a twist, in an attempt to break Dolohov even further.

“Yes, my lord. I see that now.” Dolohov suddenly found his knuckles very interesting.

“How long have you been a deatheater now Dolohov?” Came the next question: Voldemort had thought of another way to bring the man down a few pegs.

“Um,” Dolohov looked up, suddenly and confusedly, “a long time, my lord.”

“Give me a number.”

“Um, well you gave me the mark in 1969, so…” There was a tense pause while Dolohov quickly did the maths in his head. “twenty-nine years, my lord?”

“Nearly three decades.” Voldemort said, in a ponderous tone. “And in that time, you have failed to retain **any** level of strategic planning? Such a shame.” It was an insult, a mockery, and Dolohov went pink with embarrassment.

“I can only beg your forgiveness, my lord.”

“My disappointment…is beyond measure, Dolohov. Crucio.”

Dolohov let out a tortured scream. He fell to forward, muscles spasming, hitting his face hard onto the table. His face would be badly bruised: there was a quiet crunch – he may have broken his nose. Voldemort watched his pain idly, not rising from his chair. Umbridge shrieked in surprise; Alecto smirked slightly; Macnair remained unmoved; Dido’s eyes went wide. It was Bellatrix who was most animated, she laughed madly at the contorting of Dolohov’s features.

“Now,” Voldemort grew bored after about a minute, and decided to release the curse. He continued to speak, and Dolohov sat back up, rightening himself in pained movements. “despite the fact that the majority of you are completely useless, there were gains made in that battle, which is the only reason that you, Dolohov, Crabbe, Macnair, are still alive." He paused, and admitted sourly. "I must commend Carrow for her ability to continue fighting while the rest of you fell, or were taken prisoner, around her.”

“Thank you, my lord!” Alecto cried out, electric with the joy of not being punished for once.

“Be quiet Carrow – you have only succeeded in being the most intelligent of a group of morons.” Voldemort dashed her hopes of mercy. Bellatrix snickered. She really was enjoying today’s meeting. “Anyway, the Order lost a significant number of their members, including Aberforth Dumbledore, the traitor Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger and Ginevra Weasley. They will be on the back foot – it is the time to strike. They cannot be allowed to secure and redouble their forces. Strike while the iron is hot so to speak.” The whole room hung on every syllable. A quill clattering to the ground would have been lost in the concentration the deatheaters had placed on their leader’s words. Voldemort was in complete control of them, and he savoured every second of it.

“They will be destroyed before the year is out, my lord.” Bellatrix said, confidently. He turned to her, and nodded.

“Thank you for the optimism, Bella.” His voice was very genuine, and Bellatrix practically glowed, basking in the way that she was treated while the others were being berated. Turning back to the table, Voldemort hissed. “Now, I am willing to give you all a chance to regain my good opinion.” They all leant forward a little, eager. “I have a challenge for the lot of you. Each of you has one month. Bring me a member of the Order of the Phoenix. I want them alive, but I will give you a few points for every member you kill.”

“Will there be a chart, my lord?” Voldemort was taken aback internally at the sheer gall Dolohov had to ask such an asinine question so soon after being tortured for ineptitude. Perhaps he had caused the man some permeant damage, he thought?

“Are you five, Dolohov?”

“Yeah, just add fifty-years.” Bellatrix commented and was ignored.

“No, my lord.” He hung his head again. Bizarre man.

“Well I would expect that you would not need a chart with little gold stars on it to say you have done a good job.” What the fuck else was he supposed to say to that – Voldemort thought. Was this what it was like dealing with small children? Just random, unrelated bullcrap being spewed at all hours? He supposed that it would be bearable coming from someone of the appropriate age group, not from a man in his mid-fifties that should know better.

“I’m sorry my lord, a momentary lapse in judgement.”

“That appears to be happening quite often with you – try not to make it a habit.” Voldemort said, snidely. “Alright, you have your assignments. A member of the Order, alive, from each of you. I do not expect to be disappointed. Does anyone have anything else to say?”

Bellatrix caught his eye, with a raising an eyebrow slightly, as if asking for permission to speak.

Fuck. Oh no, Voldemort thought. He had kind of talked them into a corner he supposed, she was not going on any more missions now that she had made her concrete decision to keep the baby. They needed to act quickly. On top of the assignment, there was going to be a mission within the next couple of days…dammit. He sighed. Bellatrix took that as an affirmative.

“So, I have to make an announcement,” Bellatrix said, grimly, getting everyone’s attention drawn towards her.

Fuck. This was actually happening. There was no going back once she said it. Bellatrix gulped and pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. Her façade broke for a second, and Voldemort could see the worry behind her eyes. The words on the end of her tongue had the power to both give them strength and destroy them. It all rested on the reactions of the deatheaters.

Dolohov had a half smirk plastered on his face. The bastard already knew: and he was clearly highly entertained by this entire situation. Carrow looked up at her, head resting on her hand. Umbridge looked completely terrified – to be fair she always looked terrified, she had very much underestimated what being involved with a terrorist cell would be like and she did not do well with being the smallest fish in the pond – and Dido looked only mildly interested. Macnair, once again, remained unmoved.

“So, um, I’m pregnant.” The bomb dropped.

There was about three painful seconds of silence as the deatheaters processed the shock. They were very clearly stunned. Several pairs of eyes looked her up and down, as if trying to spot a difference in her appearance. Alecto looked oddly disgruntled. The silence ended as Macnair gave a bit of a snort.

“You owe me fifty galleons Carrow.” He announced, jovially, with a very ‘I told you so’ look on his face. Ah, so that explained why Alecto looked so peeved. He knew it was bad of him, but Voldemort was very amused at the scandalised face Bellatrix pulled as she watched his reaction.

“What the fuck does that mean?” When she was angry, her upper lip became very thin. At this point, it was completely gone.

“I noticed you haven’t been drinking Le-Strange. And I love a bet. So, Carrow you owe me fifty galleons!” Macnair was very pleased with himself. He put his hand out, gesturing for Alecto to hand over the money she seemed to have gambled. Voldemort watched this unfold in stunned silence.

“Dammit Bellatrix – making me lose money!” Alecto muttered, digging in her pocket (having extended those pockets so that they would hold much more than usual) and retrieving a purse.

“How about you don’t make bets about the contents of my uterus, Alecto?” Bellatrix was somewhere between astonished and furious. Alecto didn’t even look up at her, instead counting sitting, hunched over the purse, counting the money she had within.

“I didn’t think it was unreasonable to think that a forty-six-year-old woman would not be pregnant – how about you use protection?”

“I did – it just didn’t work…” Bellatrix spluttered, pink cheeked. If he was not more serpentine than human now, Voldemort would have had the same reaction. They had tried to be careful but apparently, they just had not been diligent enough. Quite unfortunate, really.

“No excuse Bellatrix.”

“Well…I am sorry for...inconveniencing you?” Bellatrix said, deeply confused by what she’d just witnessed.

“You should be.” Alecto realised that the purse only had fifty galleons in it to begin with, so instead of taking the money out, she just placed it into the open and expectant hand of Macnair, who thanked her very smugly.

“Who’ve you been fucking – Le-Strange? Bet it wasn’t Roddy.” Dolohov finally spoke, mischievously, after watching the previous events with barely contained laughter, and Voldemort seriously considered killing him then. Voldemort's eye twitched in suppressed murderous intent. Forget deatheater – Dolohov was a professional fucking shit-stirrer.

“Stop making bets!” She exclaimed, avoiding the question.

“Answer the question Bellatrix. Who is baby daddy?” Then Carrow started back up again, trying to get a rise out of Bellatrix. It was working, Voldemort could see that she was about to say something, face contorting into a jeer. 

It was then that he knew. Voldemort could not allow Bellatrix to claim that Rodolphus was the father. He could not stand by and let another man, albeit a dead man, take responsibility for his child. That did not sit well with him, it felt wrong, his gut was screaming at him not to let it happen. He could not explain it, but he had a terrible feeling that, if he didn't look out for his child himself, something awful would happen. Tempt fate? Voldemort would not dare. In that split second, he knew that he needed to stop her. Words were forming on Bellatrix’s tongue, but Voldemort jumped in before she could get them out.

“I am.” He was surprised at how calm, commanding, he managed to keep his voice. He was very far away from calm. “Bellatrix is having my heir.”

It was as if the entire room had been struck with a powerful silencing charm. For a brief second of time – the fork off a bolt of lightning flashing away – Bellatrix herself looked shocked. Dark, inky black eyes wide, mouth ever so slightly agape, the pink tinge gone from her marble skin, very clearly, she had not expected him to say anything. That was when the joy emerged. She smiled, keeping her lips together and lifting one eyebrow. She tipped her head down slightly but said nothing, instead turning to look at the dumbfounded deatheaters before them.

There was a look on both Voldemort and Bellatrix’s faces that dared anyone to raise an issue with the situation. None of them did. Despite being verbally berated for being idiots for an entire meeting, they were not actually all that stupid. They were very aware that any dissent in that moment would wind up with the voice of those complaints being 100% dead. Everyone was trying to school their faces to be as neutral as possible, worried for their lives.

“Yes, he is, do any of you have any more questions?” Bellatrix broke the silence, as casual as if she was talking about the weather. There was beat of silence.

“Yes – are you keeping your married name or are you going back to ‘Black’ now?” Carrow asked, in a pitch a little bit higher than her regular speaking voice. Bellatrix considered it for a moment.

“I haven’t decided yet. Anything else?”

“Can I be a god-parent?” Dolohov asked, as if it was up for dibs.

“Not a chance.” Voldemort said, and Bellatrix nodded vehemently: acting as a team.

“Anything else?” Bellatrix asked. Nobody dared to say anything.

“No? Ok? Meeting over.” Voldemort announced, rising from his chair, and, as he did so, the rest of them did too. Bellatrix rose, like a Queen gently rising so as not to knock off her crown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah – this did kind of devolve into crack I suppose. I hope it was funny. OMG so there is only one more chapter after this – I hope you are excited!


	45. Chapter Forty-Five

“Why did you do that?” Bellatrix whispered, urgently. She hurried after Voldemort as he had left the meeting room and struggled to keep up. It was unfair really – his legs were a lot longer than hers. They reached the kitchen before anyone else had gotten out of their chairs.

Voldemort felt Bellatrix’s fingers come to rest gently on his wrist when he finally stopped walking, standing at the window. Tenderly, her hand drifted from his inner wrist to rest on the outer side of the hand, the palm resting against his knuckles.

He didn’t look at her, instead his eyes looked down the garden. The walls of the courtyard were decorated with scorch marks from when Voldemort had destroyed the place upon returning from Azkaban without Bellatrix. The lemon tree stood tall in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded now by dandelions that were growing up through the cracks in the pavement. Orphne and her father were still in the courtyard together. The two of them were sitting on either side of the tree, blowing smoke rings at each other and chatting in parseltongue. Voldemort could hear that they were talking, but exactly what was said was muffled by the glass.

He wasn’t sure how to answer Bellatrix’s question. He could not quite put it into words what he had been feeling at the thought of not claiming his own child. He could not explain it, but he had a terrible feeling that, if he didn't look out for his child himself, something awful would happen.

“My Lord?” Bellatrix said softly.

“Let’s talk somewhere else, shall we?” He found himself saying. Bellatrix nodded, hearing the others slowly starting to trickle out from the dining room. Moving like smoke, the two of them left the house, to find a spot to apperate from.

He wasn’t sure why he’d taken them here. There was nothing special about it now. The horcrux was gone. It was just a beach. A deserted beach no less, even on such a hot day as this. The schools had restarted though – which cut out most of the children as beach users. There were no passing dog walkers either. They were the only couple there.

Normally he would have revolted against the use of that word. “We are not a couple; you are my servant!” He would have said. Colleagues; compatriots; comrades; companions. It seemed rather silly to make the definition now, though.

Still, it was rather grand. Towering white cliffs above them were filled with seabirds and their almost fully grown chicks. Parts of the headland above had sunk and slidden about with the force of the sea and movements of the earth. It gave the skyline of the cliffs a rolling, yet jagged edge. Behind them, in the chalk, lay the cave in which he had, so many years ago, his first use of violent magic. It had been quite accidental then, later on, not so much. The cave now looked unsafe, it’s roof dangerous and cracking. Its mouth was filled with rubbish the sea pulled in. A large blue oil drum – ripped in half by the power of the sea, a beheaded child’s doll, a margarine tub with no lid and instructions in Spanish.

Bellatrix’s hair was whipped about her head by the sea wind. She pushed it out of her eyes, putting the other hand over them to block the sunlight and allow her to look around. She breathed out, relieved, when she saw that they were alone and somewhere beautiful. He hadn’t shown her where all the horcruxes were; this was one of the locations he had left out.

“Well,” Bellatrix breathed, “lovely view.” She looked out to the sea and the little island that had once housed the locket; the busy shipping lanes of the channel very visible. There was an enormous container ship on the horizon. Voldemort nodded, looking out there too.

Somewhere far out in the churning sea ahead of them, he knew there would be some seals. They were always there. Always watching, keeping an eye out. Protectors of the coast. They look like dogs, their eyes and snouts do anyway. They’re twirling grey ballerinas in the sea: overstuffed sausages on land, pretty useless. It is poetic really – they’re masters in their element but terrible outside of it. He never thought that he would be comparing himself to a beached marine mammal, too undignified to even consider it, but here he was considering it. Bellatrix’s questioning eyes looked up at him, sideways, still expecting an answer. He had no idea how to put his thoughts into words. He was completely out of his element. And he did not like it.

“I thought that we were saying that it was Rod’s child, my lord?” Bellatrix said, softly, her voice cutting through the sound of the waves and the seagulls. Voldemort sighed.

“I did not agree to that. You just started speaking.” The tone of his voice was not malicious, he was just pointing out the truth. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes for a second, thinking back. 

“Oh yeah, sorry about that.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He waved a hand as if to wave away the fault. It really didn’t matter, not anymore. It had to happen at some point, and today had been as good a time as any, he supposed. “Bella…” He trailed off.

“I’m glad that you did, tell the truth I mean.” Bellatrix said, stepping a little closer to him on the shingle, the rocks crunching as she did so. “I…it would be better…I,” she seemed to be struggling to put her thoughts into sentences. He took a small step towards her as she spoke. She managed to get a sentence out. “I was very close with my father; I would hate for you and them not to have that, or have to hide that.” It didn’t sound like it was what she had originally intended to say, but it was sincere anyway.

That thought, however much he disliked Cygnus, had his heart fluttering – he did not know what that feeling was called. It was new for him.

“I didn’t have a father,” He said, “Well, I did, but I killed him when I found him.”

“I’m sure he deserved it, my lord.”

“Indeed he did, he was a fool and a coward. So, given that I am neither of those things, it seems…right…that I do not follow in his footsteps. I am going to need your expertise, given my lack of first-hand experience in this department, but this is happening.”

“Oh my lord…” Bellatrix was ecstatic! She had both her hands on either side of her head, pure joy and relief spread across her face in a glorious smile. Voldemort though she looked absolutely gorgeous. She stuttered out what she could, but she was just so giddy that is just came out in broken words. “this…we’ll be a family! You’ll be perfect, don’t worry…I love you…!” She bounced into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck. He took her into his arms and pulled her close, his head resting against hers.

He knew he needed to say something now. He needed to let her know that she was the only person in the world that he could ever see in his future. Whenever he had looked to the future, Voldemort had always just seen a load of faceless blobs when it came to his followers. Grey, humanoid shadows – not people. He would only picture the power he had received from their following. That was, except for Bellatrix. She was always there. Always be his side, always there. Happy, healthy, powerful, a great warrior: Bellatrix was the only constant he could ever see for his future. She was the only person who he trusted enough. The only person who was ever remotely equal to him. Once upon a time, that kind of mentality would have disgusted him. It was affection – affection was for the weak, wasn’t it? That was the thing that caused Gindlewald’s fall; that was the thing that corrupted Sirius, Andromeda, Narcissa – the lot of them; the thing that killed his mother; the thing Dumbledore had preached so god-damn often that even the very word ‘love’ made Voldemort’s blood boil. But, hearing it from Bellatrix’s mouth, Voldemort could accept it. He could accept it because this was not weakness. He did not feel weak when he was around her – not in any way. Having her with him, he felt stronger. Bellatrix was an asset, she was powerful, intelligent! He enjoyed her company – she was one of very few people who could consistently make him laugh – he couldn’t imagine being without her.

Dammit – he thought. Realisation hit him, harder than a diffindo curse. He breathed out slightly, and shut his eyes. It seemed like he had to swallow his pride for a second. The truth will out, or so they say, and Bellatrix deserved to know the truth.

“I love you, too.” Voldemort said softly, into her hair.

Bellatrix froze in his arms. There was silence between them, terrible silence in which Voldemort considered apperating away and never coming back. Perhaps going and hiding in a hole somewhere for the next hundred years. She unhooked herself from around his neck and, instead stared up at him. Eyes as wide as they possibly could go. Mouth slightly agape. Bellatrix was astonished! Gobsmacked.

“Really?” She breathed. Looking down at her, the thought of running away deserted him instead. He had never been so sure of anything in his life. Instead, he smiled down at her, a smirk that just crested his lips, it was barely there really, but Bellatrix saw it, and her face melted at the sight.

“Yes Bella, as hard as it is to admit it,” He huffed a little laugh then, and Bellatrix beamed, “Really, I love you.”

Bellatrix sighed, contentedly, joyfully, and reached up to kiss him. He kissed her back, heart storing. She was somewhere between tears and laughter. She shook against him, shaking like a leaf but full of energy. She was springing about and, to stop the bouncing against him, Voldemort picked her up. Bellatrix wrapped her legs around him and just clung on. She kissed the side of his head, on his temple.

“You won’t believe how long I have wanted to hear you say that!” She laughed, and sniffed, because there were tears on her face that were refusing to stop falling. He had to laugh too, because he did know. He’d known how she’d felt for decades. And, on her saying that, he held her closer. “I suppose you don’t want me to tell anyone about this?” She asked, very jovially, laughing as she did so.

“So worried about my reputation…” He sighed in exacerbated affection, and kissed her again. He put her down then, and they stood together on a deserted, sunny beach for a little while. Bellatrix was grinning like a madwoman, high on life or whatever the expression is, and took his hand in hers as they looked out to the choppy sea.

Yes, the cause was still in tatters. Yes, Potter was still alive. Yes, there was a long, winding, complicated road ahead of them with a child of their own. However, Voldemort could not bring himself to care. The only way is up, and he felt on top of the world.

“Do you want to get lunch?” Bellatrix asked after a while, her head leaning against his shoulder as they stood there together.

“Absolutely.”

~~~~~~

** March 1999 **

It was misty as the sun rose that cold morning. Dew settled on the grass, picking up the pink and gold sunlight that was beginning to shine over the horizon. A leafless tree cast a dark shadow over the window Voldemort stood at. He was tired, they’d been up all night, but it was a good kind of tired.

They were in Britain – Lancashire to be exact. Last year, when he saw the destruction of Le-Strange House, Voldemort had promised Bellatrix that she would have a new home when they won. Well, they hadn’t quite won yet, but they were in a very secure situation, and it was time. It had taken them a while to find an appropriate house: they needed a lot of space to keep two chimeras comfortably. It had only been a week since the house had been acquired: it was perfect timing.

From the other side of the room, tiny voice coughed into a cry. He turned quickly, looking back to the bed behind him to see Bellatrix scrambling over to the Moses basket that lay next to her. The bed she was lying in was huge, dark silk sheets covering it, a thick green canopy over it. She had been dozing, and absolutely deserved that rest. No more though, as she reached into the bassinet and pulled out the bundle that had been lying within.

From where he was standing, he couldn’t see the baby’s face. Just a tuft of dark hair, a little pink cheek, a hand clutching Bella’s finger. Bellatrix shushed her, holding her close to her chest. The baby stopped crying after a moment, settling into a low murmur instead, and Bellatrix smiled down at her joyfully.

“Is she hungry?” Voldemort asked, not really sure what might have made the baby start crying again and throwing out the first thing that came to mind.

“Yeah, I think she might be.” Bellatrix agreed with him, but didn’t look up from the baby’s face. “Are you hungry, my darling?” She asked her, quietly, unbuttoning her shirt. Not her shirt really, it was Voldemort’s. She didn’t own an oversized, button-down shirt of her own and thought that it would be the best thing to wear for the situation.

“You’re going with ‘darling’ then?” Voldemort asked, leaning against the window – the velvet of the curtains soft behind his head – crossing his arms and smiling at the scene.

“My mother called me darling.” Bellatrix replied, pressing the baby to her chest. They had considered a wet nurse, but neither of them trusted another person with the health of the baby (who was currently nameless). There would be formula, Bellatrix didn’t want to be breastfeeding for the next six months, but for the moment Bellatrix just wanted to be close to her.

“She looks like you.” Voldemort commented. She did. Dark hair, already curling despite its downiness, square jaw, attached earlobes. Ironically enough, Bellatrix thought that the baby’s nose looked rather like the Dark Lord’s before the fall, and had chuckled softly to herself, as she had studied her daughter’s face earlier in the night. Voldemort wasn’t sure about that – he thought it looked more like Bella’s, but he was not going to argue that with her.

It was, however, the baby’s eyes that was the most like her father’s. Well, most like Tom Riddle’s. Babies eyes darken over time, a fact that Voldemort had only learned the week before and was shocked to hear, but the little girl’s eyes were currently a very light green colour. It was clear that, when they were done darkening, they were going to be the same emerald green colour that Tom Riddle’s had been all those years ago.

“How are you feeling Bella?” Voldemort asked.

“Really, really, fucking tired.” Bellatrix stated the obvious, the dark circles under her eyes really was all the explanation that was needed. She spoke in the same, soft tone she had used when talking to her daughter. She dragged a finger very gently around the baby’s ear as she drank.

“Should you be swearing in front of the baby?”

“She doesn’t understand words yet, do you my darling? You have no idea what I’m talking about! Little nameless creature.” Bellatrix shook her head, and the baby looked up at her, very interested in what her mother was saying. She then transitioned into a normal speaking voice, and looked up to Voldemort suddenly. “No, but being serious, I am going to sleep for a week.”

“I don’t blame you.” Voldemort smirked, really happy that all of…that…was over. As the baby had been placed on Bella’s chest for the first time, she had looked up at him and vehemently stated that she was never doing that again. He had to agree – that was dreadful. “Take as much time as you need Bella.”

“Oh, I intend to,” She laughed, then looked down as the baby unhooked herself from her. “ooh are you finished? Is that better?”

“She really needs a name; she can’t just be ‘you’ for the rest of her life.” No matter how funny that would be. Voldemort just imagined shouting for ‘you’ to do their homework or something.

“You have the list,” Bellatrix said, tucking herself back into the shirt and attempting to burp the baby. She was being oh so gentle, like she was afraid the baby was going to break if she moved wrong. He did have the list – the list of names they’d narrowed down beforehand. Bellatrix was a strong believer in ‘you can’t name a baby before it’s born, you don’t know what they’re like yet’ so they had rounded it down to eight different names.

He reached into his robes and pulled out a small piece of parchment. On it, in a mixture of his and Bellatrix’s handwriting, lay the names:

“Lyra, Melinoë, Ursa, Delphyne, Tisiphone, Leuce, Cassiopeia, Aquila.” Voldemort read them aloud.

“Can you run through the list one at a time?” Bellatrix yawned, moving her head in the opposite direction to the baby, to avoid yawning in her face.

“Lyra.” He repeated and she shook her head.

“Melinoë.” Again, she shook her head.

“Ursa.” The answer was no.

“Delphyne.” There was no response then, a quiet moment while Bellatrix regarded the baby’s face intently. She had her resting in the crook of her elbow, holding her up to make it so she was almost sitting upright. Bellatrix smiled.

“Yes! I think she suits Delphyne.” She nodded, then looked to Voldemort expectantly. “Don’t you think?”

“Pass her here, lets see.” Voldemort said, stepping towards the pair of them. Bellatrix rose up a little, her hands under the baby’s head and butt so that she could be passed safely. Voldemort placed a hand gently on her shoulder for a moment, as a silent thank you. Bellatrix practically glowed.

Taking the little bundle, who was now silent, into his arms, he looked down at her. She was not looking at him, instead her eyes were peering around at the room with curiosity, as if there was something really interesting in the corner behind him. He supposed that, to her, it was; she hadn’t seen it before.

Delphyne, the name of a great, snake woman who, as the stories say, guarded the Delphic sanctuary. It was a name very on-brand for him and Bellatrix – serpentine, links to mythology, grand. Bellatrix had been a little peeved about it not being a constellation, however they could just put a constellation as her middle name. Maybe Lyra, or Ursa?

Could the baby be a powerful guardian? Right at this moment, she looked very delicate. Tiny hands clenched into fists; wispy downy hair so thin that he would see her scalp through it. Suddenly, her eyes flicked back towards him, blinking quickly a little. She fixed him with a look – on someone older perhaps it would have been called contemplative. It was very cute. Yes, yes, he thought that she could be. She would be very powerful indeed.

“I think Delphyne suits her very well.”

“Well, Delphyne it is then!” Bellatrix said jovially, flopping back down on the pillows like an empress. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to hibernate until my energy recovers.” She grinned and shut her eyes; her arms stretched out across the innumerable numbers of pillows.

Voldemort chuckled and held Delphyne close to his chest. He strode towards the window again and returned to looking out over the rolling English countryside. Delphyne’s little eyes flickered towards the light.

There was nothing between them and ultimate power now. The Order was bleeding, on its last leg, the ministry was about to fall, Bellatrix was about to be back on the battlefield (something she was gleeful to do) and their daughter was born strong and curious. Power was at his fingertips – everything was going to be his. Bellatrix to his left, Delphyne to his right, the country at his feet: Voldemort could not think of a time when things had felt any more perfect. He breathed out, with a smirk.

All was good.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah - so happy ending! I cannot believe I actually managed to complete such a long fanfiction omg! This is the first time I've done this :)
> 
> I hope you've all enjoyed this romp as much as I have enjoyed writing it - because I have had tonnes of fun it's been great! - and thank you all so much for all the lovely comments. Every single one has made my day when I've read them :) 
> 
> Again - thank you for reading :D !!!!


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